


Advanced Lessons In Deconstructing Conventional Romanticism

by Yellow_Bird_On_Richland



Series: been planting roots in each other’s dreamlands (left the garden gate unlatched for you, my muse) [2]
Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bisexual Abed Nadir, Bisexual Annie Edison, Canon Rewrite, Character Study: Abed Nadir, Character Study: Annie Edison, Dirty Talk, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Mutual Pining, Not Canon Compliant, Oral Sex, Porn With A Metric Fuckton of Plot, Porn with Feelings, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29467350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yellow_Bird_On_Richland/pseuds/Yellow_Bird_On_Richland
Summary: Annie’s recognition of wanting Abed wasn’t brought about by any one event, but by an unassuming pile of day-to-day occurrences. It’s like when a steady snowfall leaves your car buried under powder by the end of a 9 to 5 workday. It’s unremarkable, inevitable, but you’re still a little surprised by it, just the same.She thinks that’s how she knows the sensation is real. That she can see it with her eyes, even in the dark, even if it’s not bathed by the blue glow of the television light like when they lived together.
Relationships: Annie Edison/Abed Nadir
Series: been planting roots in each other’s dreamlands (left the garden gate unlatched for you, my muse) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2164302
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	Advanced Lessons In Deconstructing Conventional Romanticism

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Advanced Applications of Personal Introspection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26830933) by [Yellow_Bird_On_Richland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yellow_Bird_On_Richland/pseuds/Yellow_Bird_On_Richland). 



> Companion piece/remix to Advanced Applications of Personal Introspection, written from Annie’s perspective using flashbacks/snapshots of scenes with Abed. A few scenes will be the same, but I added some different ones--both canon and invented--and the ending varies a decent bit.
> 
> Also, I realized Speak Now dropped after when the story’s first scene would’ve taken place, but I liked the reference too much to cut it.

Between the two of them, Britta's definitely more of the late 90s rock connoisseur, but Annie's always kind of plotted out her life to a mantra from Semisonic's "Closing Time." Namely, that "every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end."

She likes the regimented order and structure to that lyric. To things having clear and shut delineations of "start" and "finish." She could never deal with teachers who give open-ended assignments like "respond to five discussion posts by the end of the semester" and would write herself deadlines for each of them in her calendar. She'd leave the last four lines of a notebook page blank and start the notes from the next class on the next page for a clearer break.

That's what's frustrating her about how she's feeling—or, more accurately, _still_ feeling—toward Abed now, all of two weeks before he's due to arrive for a visit in D.C. There's no clear demarcation point, no nighttime dream about the two of them sharing a kiss, no specific day that she was able to record in her journal, "I like-like Abed Nadir."

No, her recognition of wanting Abed wasn't brought about by any one event, but by an unassuming pile of day-to-day occurrences. It's like when a steady snowfall leaves your car buried under powder by the end of a 9 to 5 workday. It's unremarkable, inevitable, but you're still a little surprised by it, just the same.

She thinks that's how she knows this sensation is real. That she can see it with her eyes, even in the dark, even if it's not bathed by the blue glow of the television light like when they lived together.

She retrieves her journals from the storage box on the top shelf of her bedroom closet and selects the one—Spring 2010—that represents, if not a beginning, then a starting point, at least.

She flashes back not to Abed, but to Jeff, first. Abed's there, but he's not center stage.

She can't say why she identifies this memory as her entry for her reminiscing journey, but she doesn't feel all that qualified to speak on how memories work.

**

Annie's not naïve enough to think Jeff's immediately going to become her boyfriend or anything after their kiss—their _French_ kiss—at the end of the semester, but she's pretty sure she can finagle a date or two out of him over the summer. Maybe another kiss. Maybe more.

She plays coy for a bit like she's learned from Britta and eventually texts him, some random afternoon in late July, all casual-like: _You down to catch Inception some time? Maybe next week?_

He answers her a couple of hours later with, _Sure, are we gonna round up everyone else?_

Annie doesn't really know how to decline without totally giving her little scheme away, so she says yes, she'll text their group chat. Adds, _There's a pretty nice Italian place by there if you'd wanna grab food before or after._

She doesn't phrase it as an invitation, exactly, but squeals just the same when Jeff texts back, _Yeah, that sounds good. It'll be nice to see you and catch up, Annie._

She spends a bit of extra time—okay, twenty-eight minutes, but who's counting—picking out the perfect outfit: a midnight blue dress that cinches at her waist and shows off a hint of cleavage, a dress that says, "This doesn't have to be a date, but it could be if you want." She puts on just enough makeup to pass for someone who's 22 or 23 and takes painstaking care to wing her eyeliner—she giggles at her little joke, wing it for Winger, since he's pretty weak for her doe eyes.

They decide to get a bite of dinner after the movie, and he responds to her, "Milord," with "Milady," and she's proud of herself for not getting too excited that this is happening.

Except it's not.

Her outfit, her eyeliner, her attentive listening, her perky boobs—nothing she brings to the table matters. She's not enough.

Jeff dismantles Annie's daydreams with devastating precision over vegetable lasagna, crusty Italian bread, and glasses of sparkling water. He pulverizes the possibilities she'd invented into a fine powder with easy, seemingly grown-up turns of phrases like "dating might tarnish our friendship" (isn't dating meant to strengthen those bonds?) and "I don't want to hurt you, Annie" (funny, since that's exactly what he's doing) and "we were just both really vulnerable that night we kissed" (okay, and why is running away from vulnerability always the right option?).

Annie's inner romantic dims and dies a little when she realizes, _"He's done this before. He's done this a lot."_

Jeff insists on paying for her despite the fact that he's essentially cut off any chance of them sharing any more dates on what is, ostensibly, their first date. Annie suddenly feels very, very small, and she wishes the floor of the restaurant would just open up and swallow her whole.

She blares "Dear John" on the drive back to her shitty apartment in her even shittier car, plays it on repeat three times in a row until the tears burst from her eyes, ruining her mascara and turning traffic lights into blurs of primary color. She replaces every mention of "John" with "Jeff" and relates a pathetic amount to Taylor Swift singing, _"Don't you think I was too young to be messed with? The girl in the dress cried the whole way home. I shoulda known."_

Annie wants to ask "why?" again without sounding like a petulant child. The urge slaps her in the face a few times in the coming weeks.

Not, "Why won't you at least consider going on a date with me?" since Jeff's made it abundantly clear that he's taken that option off the table, stuffed it into a trash can, and thrown said trash can into an incinerator.

No, Annie wants to ask him, "Why didn't you tell me you only wanted us to stay friends at literally _any point in time_ before I made a fool of myself?"

She shouldn't have to do that, though.

Because she'd get it if some garden variety college bro jerked her around like this.

But Jeff's in his mid-freaking- _thirties._

She nearly pukes up her dinner the night _that_ particular realization washes over her, not sure if she's more disgusted with herself for lusting after him or with him for kissing her in the first place, for letting her indulge a fantasy she shouldn't have latched on to at all.

And yet, and yet, she still wants him when they come back to school. And she makes peace with that, tells herself she possesses the perspective to win him over now. She'll be cool, she'll do it gradually. _"He's really easy to desire, that Jeff Winger is,"_ Annie admits to herself.

**

Annie finds out, with the flip of a switch, that Jeff is really easy to despise, too.

Because she still wants him, somehow, even when he's clearly trying to avoid her. He ran _away_ from Britta, _into_ her, at the end of last year, but that doesn't count for shit. Since he and Britta are suddenly making out all the time and acting even more lovesick than _she_ ever did. But that behavior is _welcomed_ now. Great.

And then Abed produces two rings out of his back pocket, seemingly conjuring them from thin air, and Jeff and Britta are saying they're engaged and every sentence is baby talk. Shirley mentions something about them having "conjugal relations" on the study table and that tips her over the edge, into letting out a piercing wail.

Annie doesn't decide to get up and race toward Jeff with her fist raised—her body does that on its own—but she regains her senses while she's rushing at him.

She could stop herself from punching him.

But then she decides, _"He deserves it,"_ and throws all of her anger and sadness and rage into it, right through Jeff's stupid fucking nose.

It's definitely a bit of a relapse—okay, a lot of a relapse—from the whole grown-up, mature image and persona she's tried so hard to cultivate, and she's not sure if being sober makes her violent behavior more or less excusable than when she crashed through the sliding glass door at that party while she was off her tits on Adderall.

She misses most of the chaos thanks to the pain radiating from her right hand, but she hears herself scream, "You slept with _her_ and then kissed _me_?!" while Abed's arranging a whole wedding ceremony and Britta yells at Jeff, "So I tell you I love you, and then you go outside and play tonsil hockey with a _teenager?!"_

They're all riding a merry-go-round of insults—she kind of deserved Britta's shot about the electrical outlet, since she _is_ hyper competitive over nearly everything—when Jeff barks at Abed, "Go ahead, _cancel us._ And while you're at it, why don't you take your cutesy 'I can't tell real life from TV' gimmick with you? You know, it's very 'season one,'" he sneers.

And, sure, Abed can be...a bit much, a lot of the time, but some part of Annie thinks, _"He doesn't deserve that much scorn. Not as much as Jeff and Britta and I do, collectively."_

Abed takes Jeff down swiftly, with surprising calmness. "I can tell real life from TV, Jeff. TV makes sense. It has structure, logic, rules. And likeable leading men. In life, we have this. We have you."

Annie can't quite explain how, but it feels like Abed's the only one who's genuinely on her side, although she's no longer sure what her position even is: being pissed at Jeff, being irritated at Britta, or being disappointed with herself.

It's mostly the third, she recognizes, joking with gallows humor, _"Hello there, self-loathing, it's like you never left! Forever tagging along with your good buddy generalized anxiety, of course."_ But there's also a healthy dose of disliking Jeff coursing through her system right now.

Abed seems to pick up on that. Normally, the way he reads people can be creepy, but she doesn't mind it as much later on, after they've all cooled down a little, when he tells her, "I don't normally make a huge thing out of age gaps if it's between two adults. But someone in their mid-30s going for a teenager is a bit sketchy to start with."

"It would be, except I came on to Jeff," she mumbles. "So if you're going to blame anyone for that, it's me."

"It's not your fault. Jeff should know better," Abed responds, frowning at her self-deprecation, and that comforts her a little. "And then add on the whole running away from Britta having the confidence to share her feelings with him at the end of last semester _and_ being a playboy with you?" He shakes his head. "Well, I think getting a busted nose is an equivalent exchange for all the drama and heartache." Abed shrugs as if the whole thing can be simplified to a mathematical equation, like solving for _x_ in a two-step algebra problem, and Annie marvels a little at just how easily he can cut through dramatic crap to arrive at reasonable conclusions.

She wants to correct him on one part, though. "I don't think I'm suffering from heartache, exactly. Humiliation, mostly. Love-related and otherwise."

Her heart's pretty damn dented, but she realizes with a dizzying rush of clarity—or maybe that sensation is stemming from all the extra-strength aspirin she popped to dull the throbbing pain in her hand—that she's not going to make the mistake of investing enough of herself in Jeff Winger to let him actually break it.

And then she remembers her manners. "Thanks for that, Abed," she tells him. "Sorry for everything. For this whole day, really."

He shrugs again. "It was pretty awful, but also awfully compelling. And I learned a really valuable lesson."

Even though she'll probably receive some obscure television quote in response, she decides to humor him. "What's that?"

"To never make you as mad as Jeff and Britta made you today. You've got a hell of a right cross, Annie, and I don't ever want to be on the receiving end of it."

She laughs genuinely, without even a hint of bitterness, for what feels like the first time in weeks.

**

Annie's no stranger to interventions.

Playing Dungeons and Dragons to help a severely depressed acquaintance gain more self-confidence ranks as one of the oddest ones she's ever attended, though.

" _At least everyone else is here. And fa—Neil, just Neil,"_ she corrects herself in her head, _"is a nice enough guy. If we can help him at all, I'm up for it."_

She doesn't know all the details of how the game will work, but Abed, as dungeon master, has taken point on explaining.

"We will be playing this adventure, The Cavern of Draconis. Neil has a character named Duquesne that he's been developing for years, so I took the liberty of making these character sheets for you guys."

He lays out a sheaf of papers on the table.

"Take your time, choose carefully," he advises them. "They each have unique combinations of strengths and—"

They're all snatching sheets up at random, naturally, and Abed replies, "Alrighty," in that slightly annoyed, but mostly bemused tone that says "I'm surrounded by dunces" without too much judgement.

Troy frowns as he contemplates the empty table. "Shouldn't there be a board or game pieces or something?"

"No, this is a role-playing game. It takes place in our collective imagination. I tell a story and you make choices in it to drive the action," Abed explains.

" _Good thing Abed and Troy have enough imagination to make up for me being part of this nerdy adventure,"_ Annie thinks, but it doesn't sound _too_ lame so far.

It takes a bit of time to get used to directing the game as much as they all have to, but they're adapting to the process with slightly more ease than they adjust to most new situations in Greendale.

Until Pierce shows up, inserts himself as a character, robs Neil's character blind, and defaces his sword with his genitals— _ew—_ in a childish hissy fit over not being invited to play a game he calls "gay" and "stupid."

Annie only mutters, _"Fuck off, Pierce,"_ in her head because the satisfaction she'd get from saying it aloud would immediately be cancelled out by his endless bent toward victimhood.

They soldier on, trying to buck up Neil's spirit, when Jeff asks him, "Is there a way of moving faster while Pierce has his cape of whatever on?"

He tilts his head to the side as he considers the question. "We could fly if we had a Pegasus."

"Is that...is that actually a thing?"

Neil nods, and Jeff, after a bit of leveling with Abed about what he can and can't know, declares, "We will go to that nearby town, Abed, and ask about getting a Pegasus!"

Troy rises up from his seat. "Huzzah!" He glances at Abed. "Is this the right context for a 'huzzah?'"

Abed shoots him one of his small smiles in response, and Annie's gotta admit, _"He has a lot of patience for dealing with all of us newbies."_

Britta gets them directions to a field of Pegasi from a gnome at a tavern, and that's a sentence Annie never would've guessed she'd be present to hear, but what's college for if not expanding one's horizons?

Their party's about to open the fence to get in when Abed says, with a hint of sensuality, "The creatures are guarded by a mysterious and beautiful elf maiden who seems drawn to Mar."

"Okay. Well, I explain that we need a Pegasus and that we'll, I dunno, fill it up before we bring it back," Jeff replies quickly.

"She flirts with you."

"I flirt back."

"How?"

"I say something sexy."

"Like what?"

"Abed…" Jeff's voice takes on that hint of an edge when he feels Abed's pulled them too far astray from reality, and as a sensible person, Annie can usually relate to that. Right now, though? When they're in the middle of a DnD campaign with someone's life very much hanging in the balance?

" _Jeff's kinda dumb to think Abed won't take the role-playing seriously in this particular scenario,"_ she admits to herself.

Jeff blows out a put-upon sigh before he tosses on his trademark syrupy charm. "K. Excuse me. I don't normally do this, but you are the most beautiful creature I've ever seen, and I would really love a Pegasus."

"Ugh," Britta grouses, rolling her eyes skyward at his lame pickup attempt, and Annie groans, too. "That's weak, Jeff. We know you can flirt better than that."

Abed jumps on his obvious one-liner, anyway. "You're very handsome, you know."

"Yeeeahhh…well, yanno, I'm not really comfortable with this," Jeff answers after a minute.

Watching Jeff squirm for once—seeing him trying to react to a world that's not made for him, the way Abed has to so often—shouldn't be so fun, but it is.

"My stable has a bedding of heather. Perhaps you'd be more comfortable there," Abed nearly purrs, and Annie barely manages to bite back a laugh at his audacity.

" _Not to mention, coming up with these comments on the fly...he's really inventive,"_ she recognizes.

Jeff, however, is having none of it, and his patience has vanished. "Abed, try to look at what you're doing, and understand that I don't want to."

Abed snaps back into his DM role and narrates, in his normal voice, "You've offended the elf maiden. She seems disinterested in doing business with you today."

"What?!"

It's Jeff's nerve to express indignity over his own failure—his own _choice_ to fail, because apparently flirting with a made-up character for a minute in a role-playing game would just kill him—that spurs Annie to action.

"Alright, c'mon, we have to get going if we're gonna beat the crap outta Pierce and reclaim Duquesne's sword, can we just do this?" she asks. She's a bit surprised at how her question comes out sharp, brisk, and business-like. As if she's in Abed's dorm, bartering with him and Troy so they'll only watch one episode of Kids Next Door as a study break instead of two.

"Hi, hello. I'm Hector the Well-Endowed, you've got a bunch of Pegasi," she summarizes before sitting up a touch straighter and leaning toward Abed. "Let's make a deal."

"What kind of deal?" Abed responds softly, demurely, and that's much, much better than disinterest.

She takes a second to consider—not too long, best not to keep a gorgeous, fair elf maiden waiting—and draws on the burlesque stories she reads when she's hunting for a particular kind of inspiration.

"A deal that starts with me taking the elf maiden by the hand and leading her to the stable."

She appreciates how Abed acts out the lifting of the maiden's hand, and she wills herself to pretend she can feel his—or her, whatever, Abed and the elf are one and the same for now—heat in her right palm. "I light a candle and rip off a piece of my tunic, which I fashion into a blindfold."

Abed holds up a hand. "I like that, but I don't know if—"

Annie guesses, _"Hector the Well-Endowed is someone who takes charge."_ So she politely, but firmly, shushes Abed—er, the elf maiden—much to the surprise of the group. And herself.

"I tell the elf maiden that I mean her no harm or undue worry, and ask if kissing her before I put the blindfold on might help her relax."

She watches the tension melt from Abed's shoulders as he settles deeper into his chair, and again, she can't help but admire his dedication to the role.

"It would. She thanks you for the courtesy."

Annie nods—she's stopped purposely ignoring everyone's stares. Between considering her next moves and categorizing Abed's responses, she's gotten her mental blinders up in a hurry, and that comfort allows her to think on how she wants to approach this.

 _This_ being narrating a fictional kiss with one of her good friends in a DnD campaign when they're role-playing as gender-swapped characters. As one does on a Saturday.

Annie begins her next sequence. "I slowly lean in, cup her cheek, and offer her a firm, sure, but close-mouthed kiss. No tongue yet. Just a good, clean first kiss."

"Not _too_ clean, I should hope," Abed rejoins, and she blushes a little at that, then more as he goes on to say, "I deepen the kiss as we sink onto my bed, and I can feel Hector's heartbeat racing under his tunic."

"I ask if I can put the blindfold on," Annie continues, easily picking up from Abed's stopping point, and he nods slowly, but firmly, sure in his estimation of what the elf maiden wants. Annie continues, "I slip it over her eyes and add some teeth to our next kiss, sucking the maiden's—"

She pauses for a second, then asks, "Abed, does she have a name?"

He turns inward, clearly flicking through names in his head. "Hmm...let's go with Brizlene."

"I suck Brizlene's lower lip into my mouth—"

"I gasp at your tender boldness, my eyes slowly shutting behind the blindfold," Abed cuts in smoothly.

"I—" Annie lets out a shuddering breath she didn't realize she was holding and wills herself to maintain eye contact with Abed, to keep their collaborative storytelling spell alive. "I tangle my left hand in her long, blonde locks and bring my right to settle at the side-swell of her left breast."

"For being a warrior, Hector, you're well-versed in the subtle art of seduction," Abed, or Brizlene, praises her. Or him.

_"Jesus, my brain is all sorts of confused."_

Annie's not sure how they transition into X-rated material—turns out Brizlene's incredible at oral sex and Hector gets off to light hair pulling and dirty talk (going both ways)—so easily.

" _Well, it's just a story, and Abed's a compelling partner in crafting a narrative."_

He summarizes, once their characters are spent, "You both fall back, exhausted but still entwined, your mutual lust completely sated."

Annie grins. "Great. I stroke Brizlene's hair lovingly and spoon her for the appropriate amount of time before I leave."

"And how long is that?" Troy asks; he's the first one to talk and the only one who hasn't been staring at them for the past however many minutes. Annie's pretty sure he's been taking notes.

She looks across the table at Abed in a little silent conversation.

"I'd say five to ten minutes. Ideally a bit closer to ten?" he suggests to her.

"Seven to ten would work for me, yeah."

"Thanks," Troy mutters, scribbling that down as Abed concludes, "Brizlene, thoroughly satisfied, promises to let your group borrow a small flock of Pegasi. She also tells Hector he's more than welcome to share her bed again should he find himself nearby in the future."

"I thank her for the Pegasi and happily accept her offer," Annie responds with a smile; even in a magical realm, it feels wonderful to check tasks off a to-do list.

"Cool, cool, cool," Abed replies, offering her a pleased nod. "I gotta go check on Pierce for his turn, so you all have a bit of a break." He grabs his pen and starts writing, murmuring under his breath, "Pegasi acquired...Pierce is up, then back to our group...alright, I'll be back in a few."

Now that she isn't locked into her storytelling mode, Annie can feel Shirley staring her down and registers the smirk playing on Britta's lips.

"An-nie." Shirley's simper has that overly sweet, "I'm not trying to be judgmental, but I'm still being judgmental" tone to it. "I wasn't aware you were so knowledgeable about... _those_ types of romance stories."

"It's what's wrong with religious conservatism," Britta jumps in before Annie can answer. "It's a snake eating its tail—kids who grow up learning about sex as a sin end up being super kinky once they get over their initial fear and discomfort."

Shirley purses her lips. "And miss 'I believe in nothing' is qualified to comment on the effects of religion because…?"

Annie gladly lets the two of them bicker and slides into the background with Troy, who asks, "How hard would you say you should spank your partner? If they like getting spanked, that is, and you've, like, agreed that's something you wanna do."

"Umm—I think it kinda depends on the situation, and you should probably play it by ear," she answers carefully, trying not to laugh at the outright absurdity that is her life.

"Smart thinking." Troy offers an appreciative nod and motions Abed over when he comes back in from visiting Pierce. "Hey, buddy, quick question: how hard do you think Annie—sorry, I mean Hector—spanked Brizlene?"

Annie gasps. "Troy!"

"What? You're the one who's always telling me to learn new things, this is me trying to do that! I'm curious!"

Abed, of course, ponders the question seriously, and Annie's grateful no one's really paying attention to their little corner of the table.

"I'd say Hector applied a generous amount of force, but not too much. Just enough to cause a bit of a sting without making the pain overtake the pleasure." He turns to look at Annie. "Was that what you were going for?"

"Yeah. Um, yeah, I think so. I don't think Hector would be wishy-washy about spanking a lover," and Annie can register her cheeks burning, but she feels compelled to go on, "but he also wouldn't want to hurt Brizlene, either."

Troy considers them both and grins. "Alright. Thanks for the intel. Appreciate it."

Fortunately, she doesn't have to act out any more explicit scenes, and instead gets to spend a couple of turns hacking goblins apart with her steel war axe. They eventually shame Pierce through their collective sorrow for his sad, pathetic little life, Neil returns to better spirits, and honestly? DnD kinda delivered her a pretty good Saturday morning.

Annie's looking forward to getting to maybe take a little cat-nap when she gets home—turns out preventing Pierce from carrying out a hostile takeover of a fantasy world takes a lot out of a girl—and she's about to head out when Abed calls to her.

"I just wanted to say thanks. For being invested in the game. Especially after you drew Hector the Well-Endowed as your character, since that probably wasn't your first choice."

"Sure, Abed," she smiles. "And that was my own fault, we should've listened to you about actually choosing our characters carefully."

He nods. "That you should have."

"But honestly?" Annie goes on. "I—I kinda _liked_ being Hector. Getting to be a bit more domineering than usual."

"It suited you, and you took well to it," Abed agrees. "Your commitment to the romance part with Brizlene really drew everyone in more than I could've managed as just the DM."

"Thanks. You made it easy to really lose myself in that scene and in what Hector would've been feeling, seeing, and hearing."

"Immersion's a key part of the experience. Glad I delivered on that," Abed comments as he gestures out the door; they're walking to the parking lot together and he asks, almost shyly, "Would you want to play another time? Neil mentioned there's a club here and they're pretty open to new people, as long as they're enthusiastic and generally abide by DnD ground rules. I figured I'd probably ask Troy, as well."

"Sure!"

She's surprised at how quickly she answers, and hastily adds, "I mean—I don't know if I could commit to playing every session, but if they'd be okay with a sort of recurring guest character, I'd consider that."

He grins. "Cool, cool, cool. I'll ask Neil about it since he was plenty impressed with how you played, too. See you during our next Anthropology study session."

"Sure," she repeats, a tad quieter this time, because she's working his last sentence out in her head as he drives off. Specifically, the end of it: _he was plenty impressed with how you played, too._

Pride swells in her chest at Abed's appreciation for her skills, for storytelling abilities she didn't know she possessed until he helped her unlock them.

**

"I'm calling dibs on the Han Solo role before Jeff slouches into it."

Annie's surprised when she hears Abed say that, mostly because he rarely plays the rogue in what she terms "real life." But paintball at Greendale exists outside of that plane, so she shrugs and makes a mental note about it.

She knows there aren't many female characters in the main Star Wars universe (nice job on the gender equality, Mr. Lucas), but she guesses she can play the role of Leia, since Shirley and Britta are nowhere to be found, and not totally botch it. She's at least half-watched most of the film saga with Abed and remembers his fond description of her character: "She's a spitfire strategist armed with a strong moral compass, sass, and a deadly trigger finger."

She cocks her gun and squeezes off a couple of paintball rounds into the ceiling to get everyone's attention. Or, rather, to get Jeff and Troy's attention. As usual, their little group has made its way to the center of everything.

"Hey!" she shouts, glowering at their dick-measuring idiocy before she continues. "I've got something to say."

Some douche unhelpfully sneers, "I don't take orders from girls."

Whether it's high school, a normal college day, or the middle of a fucking paintball war, it doesn't matter, there's always some man who feels the need to talk over her. She's about to snipe back when Abed levels his gun at the guy who interrupted her and warns, without a trace of a joke in his voice, "Watch it, quasar face. Annie's a good kid and a better shot than you, to boot. We need her to win. You're nonessential. So shut your mouth and listen to her unless you want a paint bullet to the chest. Got it?"

The offender mutters, "Yeah. Yeah, sorry," and Annie wills herself not to preen at Abed's defense. She's seen him disarm their friends with an ease and a dry wit that would lend itself well to a debate stage. But this passion, this anger? The darkness in his eyes?

She's not immune to thinking, _"It's pretty hot."_

She gives him a sharp nod, as if nothing's amiss, and adds, "Thanks, Abed. Er, Han, I mean." Now that she's got a prime spot on stage, she might as well use it. She spreads her arms wide, tries to decide how to address Jeff and Troy in a way that won't spark a useless pissing match, and settles on, "Gentlemen."

They each incline their heads slightly, and okay, that works.

"How about the two of you divide and conquer? If we split our resources and troops, we should be able to implement both your strategies for one subtle attack and one frontal assault," she suggests. "That way, we're diversifying our approach, and we won't be putting all our eggs in one basket."

Jeff and Troy consider her proposal, then share a confused look.

"Don't know how we missed that," Troy mutters, and Jeff admits, "It seems like a good plan."

"Well, I'm not in the habit of offering up bad ones." She doesn't bother to filter out any of her condescension before commanding the room at large, "Now, fellow rebels, let's make every last member of that City College scourge rue the day they set foot upon Greendale soil!" She hesitates for a second, wondering if she's taking this too far, but then she sees Abed grip his gun a bit tighter, and that's all the encouragement she needs to shout, "They must pay for their choice—with their blood!"

The collective roar leaves a din in her ears and ripples across her skin, and she gets, now, why so many guys fantasize about Leia.

" _Hell, if I were a guy,_ _I'd_ _want me after hearing that speech,"_ Annie thinks as she joins Abed to begin their clandestine attacks on the invaders.

It's natural for her to go with him. To play along with the Star Wars plot, of course, not for any other reason.

To maintain their roles, she asks, "So what's a scoundrel like you doing here, fighting for a cause?"

"There's only two causes I fight for, sweetheart: me and my wallet," Abed answers, cavalier down to his boots as he snipes a couple of enemies. "Those Imperial dimwits are bad for business. They wanna monopolize the shipping industry, and they don't care about destroying livelihoods."

"Or lives," Annie interjects sharply as she guns down an opponent herself.

"Very true. I don't love that about 'em, either." They enter another room and instinctively go back-to-back to cover each other.

"So maybe you do have a heart, then? Can I get you to admit that?"

" _You_ can get me to admit a lotta things. See, I like women who can handle themselves in a fire-fight. They're the most fun to get drinks with at the Cantina." He winks at her after they've cleared the room, and she can't help but smile softly at the specificity of his compliment.

" _It's just part of a game, though,"_ she rationalizes. _"It doesn't mean anything."_

She doesn't exactly know why that bums her out. It's probably because the sensation of being wanted has been foreign to her for a while, what with the whole Jeff fiasco. And even when she'd dated Vaughn, that had been puppy love, easily blown away like a summer dandelion.

So Annie indulges herself, indulges Abed, too, since she knows he enjoys these more extended breaks from reality.

"After the war is over, maybe we can get that drink together," she tells him, then throws in a playful insult, like Leia would. "Even though you're a no-good, laser-brained nerf herder."

They eventually get pinned down in the library with Troy, and their desperate search for more bullets comes up empty.

"We're down to our final shots," Troy notes grimly. "I'm gonna make a run for the nearest fire alarm to set it off and hopefully douse these idiots in paint." He offers each of them a firm handshake and a quick salute. "It was a pleasure fighting alongside both of you."

"Likewise," they murmur solemnly, just before he sneaks away.

Annie glances over at Abed and voices a question she should hold back. "Looks like this is it. Will you still be Han Solo after we die?"

He shakes his head, tight-lipped. "'Fraid not, doll. Once I'm gone, I'm gone."

"Oh. Okay." She tries to wear a brave smile and offers a little shrug, an understanding nod, like it's no big deal, like she hadn't gotten used to wanting Abed in this setting, but she still feels like a naive child for believing he'd stay like this after the game.

She turns away from him, wanting to hide the blush in her cheeks, when she feels the air around them shift. Feels him stalk toward her the tiniest bit. Feels his hand on her back as she turns toward him.

Annie's used to pursuing objects of her affection, not being pursued. But when Abed pulls her in close, she doesn't stop to think, just revels in the way her stomach swoops and how quickly he's leaning in, pressing their bodies together, and _holy shit_ , does Abed Nadir ever know how to fucking kiss.

She normally starts her kisses with more romanticism, more tenderness, but they don't have time for such niceties in war, so she kisses him back, hard, almost gasping into it because she didn't expect _this._ The sheer force of his desire (and hers).

Their breaths come out ragged and she's normally pissed when guys check out her chest so blatantly and she should maybe figure out why she's fine with Abed's doing it right now, but then she'd be thinking about him instead of kissing him, so she wipes the chalkboard of her mind blank and surges toward him again.

She's on the very edge of suggesting they make their way to the study room because there's a couch there and Abed's very, _very_ good at making out with her, so good that her knees are going weak, but then he pulls back and murmurs a single, highly pleased, "Cool," before he dashes off.

"Yeah. Cool," Annie whispers to no one in particular as she sinks down the wall, letting orange paint continue to splatter her.

Troy barrels up to her with a massive grin on his face. "We did it!" He sinks down to give her an enthusiastic low five, his delirious joy waning a touch.

"You ok, Annie? Why are you sitting on the floor?"

She nods, still lost in a daze, and lies, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

" _No, I'm not,"_ her brain contradicts her.

"I'm just tired. This whole day took a lot out of me, you know?"

" _Plus, Abed just kissed me stupid and I don't know what to do about it."_

**

Annie just wants a home—her own private domicile, to quote Jesse Pinkman—that's free from telltale signs of emotional and/or structural deterioration. That doesn't seem like too much to ask for.

" _One out of two isn't bad,"_ she lies. Truthfully, she should probably be receiving a stipend for living in this clap-trap rat-box rather than paying rent. Environmental scientists would surely offer a pretty penny to study samples of the new, potent, Dildopolis-specific strain of mold that's undoubtedly infiltrated her lungs by now.

Unfortunately, another day trawling the Denver Post's apartment listings proves unsuccessful. She doesn't particularly want to try the whole "random roommate" situation, but every other one-person apartment that's remotely near Greendale is well out of her price range.

She tells Troy and Abed about her plight while she's helping them set up their apartment over the summer. Or, rather, after they've finished arranging some of the furniture and have played some Settlers of Catan.

"I'm kinda surprised you're still here, Annie," Troy comments as he glances at his watch. "It's already a bit after 10."

"Well, Spaghetti usually gets back from the bar around this time, and he'll almost certainly be flirting with a public indecency charge, at least, if not public urination, so I'm hoping I can wait that out." She adds a note of false cheer, trying to make light of her living situation, but she thinks she comes off manic, instead.

Abed and Troy frown at each other at that, and Abed says, "I'm not trying to be mean, but it sounds like your apartment sucks."

Troy replies before she can answer. "It does. No offense," he adds, glancing at Annie to see if she disagrees, and, well, she can't, so he goes on, "When I dropped you off after my, um, date of birth party last year, I couldn't get over how skeezy it felt. It didn't seem like somewhere our Annie should live."

She treats her smile like silly putty and stretches it til it might tear. "Well, it is, unless I missed the memo on there being another apartment complex in a less shitty part of town that offers equally inexpensive rent. And I've survived it this long, so I can do another year, for sure." She nods to herself, as if that will strengthen her resolve or magically fix the leaky ceiling in her bathroom or the ever-present scent of weed that clings to the hallway carpets.

"I feel like you should at least be ambivalent about where you live," Abed notes as she gets up to leave, with Troy commenting, "I lived with Pierce and had to learn some crazy new racist insults, and I still had it better than you."

She shrugs with a false chill-ness that's never come naturally to her. "It is what it is. I'm really good at making the best of bad situations, so I'll just keep doing that."

" _It's only another year,"_ Annie glumly reminds herself as she shuts her blackout curtains as tightly as she can to reduce the glare of the neon Dildopolis sign. _"Maybe two."_

The air-conditioning cuts out around 2 A.M. and she allows herself one long, drawn-out scream into her pillow.

Things get marginally better as the weather cools and the fall semester starts, but she grows weary of turning little corners of Greendale's library into a second home by the middle of September. She'd spent enough time doing that in high school to keep away from her parents—she would much rather not have to repeat the behavior for the rest of the year, but she's pretty convinced she will.

 _"At least this apartment-warming for Troy and Abed's place will be a nice distraction,"_ she thinks as she and Britta arrive around the same time and knock on their door.

"Hello!" the boys trill, and they're decked out in blazers, and Annie can't help but laugh as they start offering the tour. She also can't help but notice a distinct lack of mold on the living room and kitchen ceilings, and there's no cold drafts near the windows like at her place.

"Alright, we'll just order the pizza and then it's time for board games."

Jeff shakes his head. "Count me out for those. It was nice to see your new place, guys, and I'm glad you're settling in, but I got an invite to the opening of this new club." He produces a card from his wallet. "Look at this place. It's like it was _designed_ for me."

"It was," Abed responds. "I made that in Photoshop and mailed it to you a month ago so you'd keep tonight open on your calendar. Troy and I figured you'd craft a believable excuse to not stay the whole time if we offered you a standard invitation."

"So you mean there's no such thing as the Single Malt Platinum Boobs and Billiards Club?" His face drops as he realizes he's been conned. "Guess I never said it out loud."

"We've got something better than boobs and billiards," Abed answers.

"Yeah! We've got Yahtzee, Ticket to Ride, and Blokus," Troy eagerly adds.

Jeff takes another look at Pierce's bottle of Serbian rum. "I'm gonna need a couple pulls of this."

The evening's moving along pretty well, in Annie's estimation—Troy and Abed are only being a little weird in their quest to be perfect hosts, Pierce hasn't made more than two off-color remarks, and Britta's only snuck away to smoke weed once.

" _And this is the only time tonight I'll judge people,"_ she guiltily mentions to herself. _"Well, barring things going off the rails."_

Their door buzzes.

"Nose goes for pizza?" Troy suggests, but they all touch their noses at about the same time.

"Here, how about we do this: count to my left, starting at one. Whoever's number comes up from me rolling this dice has to get the pizza," Jeff comments.

They all more or less agree on the idea, but Abed's face twitches in a frown. "Just so you know, Jeff, you are now creating six different timelines."

Jeff must be in a good mood—he grins and humors him. "Of course I am, Abed."

He tosses the dice into the air, and Abed snaps his hand out to catch it before it lands.

"I don't think you should. Chaos already dominates enough of our lives," he observes. "Our job isn't to fight it, but to weather it, together, on the raft of life. It won't matter what happens around us as long as we stay honest and accepting of each other's flaws and virtues."

He looks at his best friend and starts going around the table. "Troy will always be empathetic, Annie will always be driven, Shirley will always be giving, Pierce will never apologize, and Britta's sort of a wild-card from my perspective. And Jeff will forever remain a conniving sonuvabitch," he finishes, clearly pleased with his little monologue.

"Abed!" Annie and Shirley gasp at his insult.

"There are six sides to the die," he explains, turning it over with his fingers, "but seven of us. Jeff devised a system by which he never has to get the pizza."

He gives an evil-ish chuckle and everyone heckles him before Troy pipes up. "I think we just found our pizza-getter."

"Oh, like it matters who gets the pizza," Jeff grouses, but he gets up, just the same, and bonks his head on the ceiling fan.

"What's so funny?" he asks as everyone—especially Britta—bursts out laughing.

Annie laughs again. "Karma."

Britta starts belting Roxanne proud, loud, and off-key, creating a sing-along with Shirley, and she points at Annie, too, so she gets up and dances while Jeff's out getting the pies. Something tugs at Annie's heart when she notices Abed air-drumming along to the beat with his pencil, when the two of them make eye contact for a moment, and she realizes Troy and Abed's apartment feels the way a home should be—warm and inviting—even if it's a temporary one for a motley crew of college students. At that recognition, she can't help but almost shout at her boys, "I really love your place!"

Abed points at her in response. "You should move in with us."

It takes her a second to respond, her eyes popping wide at the unexpected offer. "You're—you're serious?"

"Sure," Abed tells her. "We," he nods at Troy, who seems quietly stunned by this turn of events, "talked about it a while after that night you came over in the summer. It'd be fun, you'd get out of your crappy apartment, and we'll all save on rent. Win-win-win."

"Okay," she agrees. "Sure. That sounds awesome!"

"Yeah, it does, doesn't it?" Troy answers a few seconds too late, his voice a little too flat, but then he hitches a grin back onto his face, and he and Abed execute their handshake, and Annie knows she's in.

The rest of the night ends up being a blast, too, and Annie nearly has to pinch herself once in a while as a reminder of, _"You'll be living here soon. No more Dildopolis."_

She bear-hugs Troy and Abed as she's about to leave and tells them, "Thank you, thank you, thank you again."

"Of course, Annie. Lemme get your coat," Troy volunteers, and he ducks back toward their closet.

"Thank you, Abed," she adds, singling him out a little as Troy slips away for a second. "I know disruptions to your routine can be challenging."

"Oh, you're definitely not a disruption, Annie," he reassures her, and she gives her standard "aww" in response before he goes on to say, "Troy and I discussed this for a while, so I've had some time to think about how everything will work. Plus, you're one of our best friends. Why wouldn't we want you to live with us?"

She hugs him again and beams at him and Troy as she heads out, and knowing that she'll be able to ditch Dildopolis thanks to them puts a spring in her step despite the late hour.

She's riding the high of planning her escape from her sinkhole of an apartment for so long that she only remembers just before she falls asleep that night.

" _It seemed like Abed invited me to live with them on his own."_

She dismisses the thought out of hand, tells herself, _"They must've talked about it and Troy just forgot in the excitement of the party. Or he thought they were gonna tell me another time."_

There's no way Abed, of all people, would invite her—or anyone, really—to live with them on the spot.

Right?

Right.

She struggles a little with adjusting to life in Casa Trobedison at first, as Troy and Abed don't quite understand how she needs some semblance of a routine and more in-depth forms of cleanliness and organization than what they offer.

"We realized we never invited you to discuss our potential roommate dynamic, which was dumb," Troy says. "So…" he and Abed each settle into a chair at their dining room table and extend a hand toward her to come sit, as well. "Let's chat."

"Thanks, guys. Um, I guess to start, what would you say your dynamic is?" Annie wonders.

Troy and Abed share a glance before Troy asks her, "You're pretty familiar with _Friends_ , right?"

"Mmhmm."

"Cool," he answers just before he and Abed chorus, "Cool, cool, cool." Troy gestures at Abed. "Take it away, buddy."

"Alright. So, Troy and I have cultivated something of a Chandler and Joey roommate vibe here. Very casual, all about having a good time," Abed explains. "And I don't mean to imply that your arrival here has been a buzzkill or anything, but we could definitely stand to implement a more regular cleaning schedule, some kind of plan for weekly dinners, et cetera. Make your comfort more of a priority, in short."

Annie nods in agreement. "I'd really appreciate that."

"So, we'd like to adjust the apartment to have more of a Joey and Rachel feel from the later seasons, when Joey, in particular, is a bit more responsible—except with three of us, obviously," he concludes. "If that's something that you'd agree with."

She nods again and smiles at both of them. "Yes. That sounds great."

They hash out a plan for the rollout of the new and improved Casa Trobedison, and aside from the occasional hiccup—their shower's hot water supply is pretty limited, and the three of them get on each other's nerves once in a great while, if only because the apartment's small—her new living situation brings with it the kind of contentment and happiness she's rarely associated with a home.

Annie's favorite part of it all is just how easily the three of them can coexist, how they can play in the Dreamatorium together or put together episodes of "Troy and Abed and Annie in the Morning" or give each other space if they need it. And in between those spaces, they sometimes "couple off," for lack of a better term: she knows Troy and Abed will play video games or plot out adventures while she's doing extra studying or spending some alone time reading in her room. She and Troy often work on puzzles while Abed's writing scripts or directing films for his fine arts courses, and she and Abed often end up on the couch together dissecting media when Troy needs time by himself.

Annie doesn't exactly have a favorite apartment activity, but she's surprised at how she comes to look forward to movie and television time with Abed, in particular. It's nothing against Troy, it's just that...well, her boys are clearly besotted, smitten, and taken with each other. However you want to frame it, they're in love, and she sits back and watches their dynamic play out and interrupt their activities sometimes. She doesn't begrudge it at all—truthfully, they're precious together. But she likes it when Abed can offer her his full attention to provide context for a particular scene in _The X-Files_ , or note callbacks she wouldn't necessarily notice in _Inspector Spacetime._

Overall, their communal living situation—Troy, Abed, and Annie, the three amigos in apartment 303—is really great.

Until it's not.

Until it's _permanently_ not.

**

Thanks, Pierce.

" _Fucking asshole,"_ Annie fumes when the day's over. _"Creating strife for all of us from his stupid Laser Lotus grave or whatever the fuck it is."_

Sure, she's supposed to be respectful of the dead. But she thinks she's owed a goddamn exception for a hateful, racist, misogynistic, anti-Semitic homophobe who divided his time between leveling insults at his fellow study group members and pitting them against each other.

And now their apartment is fractured, divided, because Troy's leaving and they know she drugged all of them to get an Anthro project done (but they got an A out of it instead of their usual collection of Bs and Cs, so, really, she still thinks they came out ahead) and she knows Abed catfished her for pancakes.

" _We already all knew that we sometimes crap on each other. We didn't need to dredge more shit to light."_

She and Abed take turns hanging out with Troy—they're not especially ready to spend time with each other outside of committee meetings—but he extends the first olive branch, in the form of fluffy, homemade French toast.

Granted, it's Troy's favorite, so it's more for him than anyone else (nearly everything Abed does is more for Troy than anyone else, she knows), but he makes enough so she can enjoy a couple of slices for breakfast, herself.

"Thanks," she mutters a touch begrudgingly in between bites. She's still not completely ready to forgive Abed for his indiscretions, but it's more challenging to be mad at someone after they've made such a stellar breakfast.

"No problem."

His tone's definitely more wooden, but she's not sure if it's because of Troy's decision or if he's still smarting over the whole "my friend drugged me" deal. Probably both.

"I'm sor—"

"Annie, I shou—"

She gives a little laugh at how they're so in sync that they cut each other off. "I feel like your breakfast was kind of a start to an apology, so I wanna go first, if that's alright with you?" Annie asks.

He motions vaguely at her to go on, so she does. "I'm sorry I went grade-crazy and drugged all of you so we could get a better grade in Anthropology. It was, frankly, a pretty serious violation of consent, and probably could've been a health hazard. I should've known better, but I kinda went 'no thoughts, head chloroform.'"

Despite everything, their lips twitch upward in mutual remembrance of that episode at Jeff's old law firm.

"Anyway," she continues quietly. "It was downright shitty of me. Again, I'm sorry."

Abed slowly nods at her. "I've heard plenty of meaningless apologies in my time, and even from within the group itself. That...was not one of them. Thank you, Annie."

She rolls her eyes at him. "You couldn't have phrased that better?"

He runs back the words in his mind and cringes. "Oof. Okay, yeah, my bad. And also, more to the point, I apologize for catfishing you. It was another kind of a violation of consent, and was truly awful, awful behavior on my part. You didn't deserve that, at all. No one does, really," he notes, "but especially not one of my best friends."

The question that's been bothering her rises to the surface. "How'd you do it?"

"I was disturbingly manipulative. In a way that reminds me too much of Pierce." He grimaces. "Seriously, if our best friendship, or even friendship, is no longer mutual, I'd get it. There's plenty of times when I don't even like me."

The thought makes her stomach drop like an elevator with its cables cut.

"No."

He's staring at her—not a surprise, given the strength of her negation—and she quickly corrects herself. "No, I mean, no I don't want us to stop being best friends or friends, Abed. I mean, yeah, this is a bit of a rough patch, but—" she takes a gulp of orange juice to give herself more time to formulate her thoughts. "I drugged you, you catfished me. In a super fucked-up, macabre way, I feel like those misdeeds kinda cancel each other out. And by _how_ , I meant more—how'd you know what I'd want a boyfriend to be like?"

He brightens up a smidge at that. "Oh, that part was easy. I just used standard rom-com fare in terms of language choices. Leaned a bit on the indie side of things so as to not come off as too corny."

"Huh." She thinks back to some of their conversations and tries to imagine if they'd charm her these days, and she's speaking her answer without really being aware of it.

"I don't know if that'd work on me now," she reflects thoughtfully. "I feel like my conceptions of romance and relationships have changed over the past couple of years."

"For sure," Abed agrees, and he observes everyone enough for her to not question it. "You've developed a more nuanced view of what romance is and how relationships should work. You know it's not just about the grand gestures."

"Exactly," she nods. "That the day-to-day stuff can be just as important as big picture work. Like Jim tells Michael when they're working as co-managers."

Abed shoots a finger gun at her and she grins—something about impressing him with apt television references is mildly addictive. "Bingo. Do you wanna watch the episode where they're trying to decide on how to tell everyone they're not getting regular raises? I could go for some mindless stupidity, and they're absolute morons for that whole day."

"Yeah, I could do that," she answers, moving to the living room to get the TV set up once they've finished cleaning up from breakfast, and just like that, their standard equilibrium's close to restored.

**

She's not trying to listen, but they're all standing close together, and she can't help but hear it: "By the way, when I cloned you, I had to patch some missing parts of your DNA with genes from a homing pigeon. You may notice side effects, like a compulsion to come back."

Annie's heart breaks for her two best friends, plummets beneath the asphalt just outside the library.

It gets worse when she and Abed get back home. Or, more accurately, get back to the apartment.

It's not home anymore. At least, not as they'd known it, not as they'd crafted it.

They strain to get through each day.

She knew Troy's departure would be hard—damn near impossible, really—on Abed. She didn't think she'd struggle this much herself, didn't think she'd drive herself crazy with longing to hear him cheer on or lament the Broncos on a Sunday afternoon, or to listen to him bust out his classic Taco Tuesday song: _"Run 'round the block, oh man, we're gettin' tacos, man, we are all taco fans, let's get this guac-o, man."_

The worst part is how no one else seems to particularly feel Troy's absence as deeply as she and Abed do. Sure, everyone stares at his empty seat for a minute or so on the first day the Save Greendale Committee reconvenes after his departure for an informal moment of silence, but beyond that, there's not much of a reaction. It might be dramatic, but it feels like she and Abed are war widows—he moreso than her, by a factor of exponents she doesn't really want to consider, but still. They're faking their way through a good half of their social interactions, at least, and their feet drag when they walk back to whichever car they'd driven to the latest Save Greendale meeting. She wants to throttle Jeff and Britta for being idiots, wants to uncage Crazy Annie and scream, _"We're not okay, we're not o-fucking-kay"_ when they ask about how they're doing.

Despite all of that, she tries.

Goddamn, does Annie ever try.

Her parents always told her, "Effort is non-negotiable," and that mantra's stuck with her through the years.

She plays God of War, CoD, and Skyrim with Abed even though she's shit at pretty much any game released after the mid-2000s. She doesn't complain that more and more of their lunches and dinners are buttered noodles. She lets him skip classes once in a while and quietly lends him her notes from the European History course they're taking without saying anything about it. She watches (and re-watches) Kickpuncher with him.

They finally fall apart one Saturday morning. He's got the news on, which is a touch unusual, so she asks, between bites of an Eggo waffle and apple cinnamon Cheerios, "Whatcha doing, Abed?"

"For my one directing class, our professor wanted us to watch the local news and consider ways to make small-potatoes stories more compelling. Figured it couldn't hurt to follow his directions even though I already have a few viable ideas."

He absentmindedly hums the "Troy and Abed in the Morning" song under his breath, and nothing happens. Annie thinks, for a sliver of a second, that maybe, just maybe, they'll be fine. They'll be good.

" _Fuck,"_ he mutters, in the same sharp, tight tone he gets when he accidentally cuts himself while slicing up vegetables in their kitchen.

"Why did he have to leave, Annie? Why did he have to leave?"

His voice increases in volume and pitch, and she has answers—rational ones, that they've all discussed as a group—but she gets the feeling that none of them will satisfy him. Or her, if she's being honest, but she tries presenting one, anyway.

"He needed to find himself," she replies softly, trying to balance her voice on a tightrope: understanding but not patronizing, warm but not too emotional, rational but not unkind or cold.

His eyes are wild, searching for a way out of the doomsday scenario, growing wider as every door slams in his face. "He could have done that here. I would have—I would have let him, if that's what he needed. Would have given him space. Why—why—"

Annie's been keeping about six plates spinning in the air for the past month by herself and she can't do it anymore, just like how Abed can't complete his sentence.

He's gasping for breath, for words that won't arrive, and she lets herself collapse, too, with a whispered, "I don't know, Abed," as she gets to her feet, stumbles over to the couch, and falls into him with a sob.

She doesn't know how long they stay like that. She doesn't know which tear stains on her pajama shirt are from her or from Abed.

"We—we kissed each other goodbye. The night before," he confesses hoarsely at some point. "I'm still not sure if it was the best or worst mistake of my life."

She manages an "Aww" and it makes things better for a second, but then she's flashing back to their early days, when she did that all the time, and it's difficult to say which hurts the most: remembering or starting to let go.

She knows they've been managing (or mismanaging) the grieving process, that this outburst of emotion is actually healthy, but she needs a little reprieve from the overwhelming sadness, so she molds it into ugly, seething contempt.

"You know what really fucking sucks about all this?" she asks him, her eyes flashing.

"Besides everything?" he deadpans, and they both manage a laugh at that before he adds, "And was that rhetorical, or a legit question?"

"It was both, I think. If you wanna take a stab at what I'm thinking," she offers.

He nods and studies her expression for a beat. "You're feeling a divide. In our responses to Troy leaving. Not _ours_ ," he clarifies, gesturing at what little of a gap exists between them on the couch, "but, kind of...us compared to the rest of the group. Such that it is now."

"...yeah," she breathes out. "How'd you know?"

"The vein in your neck pops when Jeff or Britta ask if you're okay without really asking. When they just say it as a filler greeting."

"You've seen that?"

She thinks she should be annoyed at him, for mapping her out so easily, for reading her body and its tells with pinpoint accuracy, but she's nearly flattered, somehow.

He nods. "Sure. I see—well, not everything, but I can spot patterns pretty quickly. And it probably helps that we're on the same wavelength. Because it does really fucking suck."

She's rarely heard this dark undertone to his voice, but it's warranted.

"And it's not even that they don't get it," he continues. "It's that they've chosen to not make an effort to understand what exactly Troy meant to you. To me. To us."

She points at him insistently, repeatedly. " _Yes_. Exactly!"

They exhale and maybe, just maybe, a tiny bit of the weight's gone.

"Annie?"

"Hmm?"

"I know it's only…" he checks his watch. "A bit after eleven, but would you be willing to get slightly drunk with me in a little while?"

She's off the couch and striding over to their liquor cabinet before he finishes the question.

"Yes. If you couldn't tell." Her laugh comes out watery, but at least it exists in some form. "Um—" she wipes her eyes. "I'm gonna shower first, just so I feel less like a sad day-drinker."

"Sure. Go for it. Think I'll hop in after you."

She glances back at him, still a bit scared at how dead his voice sounds, and after nodding at their supply of booze, murmurs, "Don't start without me, kay?"

He nods and gives her a thumbs-up before she retreats to her room to get a towel. Annie tries to cleanse her mind while she's under the water, to remind herself, _"Troy needed to do this. He needed to stand on his own two feet. He needed to become more of his own person."_

The grown-up talking points don't do much for the pain, so she turns the shower handle toward the faded _H,_ hoping to get more than a lukewarm spray for once. Instead, the temperature jumps right to red-hot and scalds her. The shock renders her silent for a second before she yelps and adjusts it back to its standard, unsatisfying temperature.

The door opens a crack a few seconds later, and Abed pokes his head in. "You okay?"

She's about to lie, on the verge of saying she's fine, but suddenly she can't and she's nearly crying again. "No. No, I'm not. Stupid too-hot water. Plus...you know."

A pause. "Would a shower beer help, maybe?"

She peeks her head out from behind the curtain. "A shower beer?"

"Sure." His voice gains a tiny bit more of its usual life, its standard curiosity. "You've never had one before?"

"No."

"They're pretty great. Especially when you're feeling not okay, for whatever reason." He clears his throat for a second, then continues. "Um, when...when Troy and I moved all our stuff in, when we were bringing up furniture and whatever else, and after we cleaned the shower, he, uh, told me about it. Said that PBR tasted better specifically in the shower, after hard manual labor," he chuckles. "It seemed to be true that day, at least. We never got around to testing the theory with regards to emotional labor, though."

Annie shrugs. "Fuck it, I'll be a guinea pig. I'm assuming we have beer?"

"Probably a safe bet." She hears Abed rummaging around in the fridge, and he returns about a half a minute later. She doesn't mind, for some reason, that he simply comes into the bathroom—after all, how else is he gonna bring her the beverage?

He _is_ respectful enough to keep his eyes closed as he approaches her—she can only imagine what Jeff might do in this situation—and she reflexively squeezes his hand for a second as she takes the can of Yuengling from him.

"Thanks, Abed." She tries to layer her voice, hopes he can hear her smile, her gratitude. "I'll let you know how it is. For research."

"Cool. Cool, cool, cool," he replies just before he ducks out of the bathroom.

She cracks it open and takes a swig. And a second, to confirm the pleasure of the first, and a third, to extend the enjoyment of the second.

 _"Okay, maybe Troy and Abed were on to something."_ She puts the beer down on the ledge so she can finish showering.

She laughs at the absurdity as she gets out of the shower and walks back to her room to get changed, towel wrapped around her body, beer in hand.

"Abed?"

"Yeah?" he calls from his bed.

"Great tip on the shower beer."

He emerges from the fort and she swears he tracks her all the way back to her room with his gaze.

"You know what, I think I'll have one, too."

"You should," she replies after a beat; surely the goosebumps making their presence felt on the back of her neck are just from the cold.

She gives her head a shake to clear away her strange thoughts. _"Abed wasn't looking at you that way. Or in any way. You've worn just a towel around here, around him, plenty of times. Stop being crazy."_

She settles on the couch after getting changed into what are basically new pajamas and sips on her Yuengling while watching an episode of Parks and Rec. It feels appropriate, considering she and Abed are sharing a rather Andy Dwyer-ish day together.

Abed gets out from the shower with fresh pajama pants on and his towel draped over his shoulders.

Annie's eyes only roam over him as he casually drinks his beer because she's learned to people-watch from the ultimate people-watcher. She only notices that his hair's getting long because she's looking out for signs that he's letting himself go a bit with Troy gone.

He gestures toward the TV. "What episode?"

"Huh?"

"What episode are you watching?"

She blinks hard, returns her attention to where it should be, and reboots herself. "Oh—uh, I think this is the one where Leslie and Ann wanna get into the boys' club."

Abed nods appreciatively. "Nice. I know early _Parks_ was derivative of _The Office_ , but I liked when Leslie's screw-ups were pretty normal. Her being broken in a less quirky, outlandish way felt more human."

" _Well, then, this episode's appropriate,"_ Annie's subconscious observes. _"Broken TV character. Broken apartment. Broken Annie. Broken Abed."_

There's a certain strength in admitting defeat, though. In falling off a pedestal and not rushing to repair herself. In enjoying the ruins, going on a sight-seeing tour of them with her best friend sitting to her left while she clutches a cold brew in her right hand.

She can never mope for too long—her genes won't let her. So after they watch another couple of episodes together, she gets up off the couch.

"Would you mind if we did some cleaning, Abed? It might sound weird, but it helps me clear my head."

"We could," he agrees. "Wanna put on some tunes?"

"Sure. Your choice."

He hooks up his computer to the speakers and scrolls through his Spotify, and Annie braces herself for an adventure—Abed has, by far, the most eclectic taste in music not just of the group, but out of basically anyone she's ever met.

There's a cough, and she turns to ask if he's okay before the song starts:

_I got your picture,_

_I'm coming with you,_

_Dear Maria, count me in,_

_There's a story at the bottom of this bottle_

_And I'm the pen._

She grins. "All Time Low?"

He grins back, clinks their beer cans together in a clumsy cheers. "Cleaning to atmospheric music or movie soundtracks has never really worked for me. Need something upbeat to get any motivation."

They stick in the alt-rock, pop-punk region for most of the time, bopping along while they vacuum and dust and Febreze, and they're generally doing well.

Except for when they bump into some of Troy's favorite tracks.

They can't bear to skip all of them, and this new form of pain is too raw to acknowledge, so they're nearly screaming along to the chorus in some The Academy Is song they only know thanks to him:

_Run,_

_In another five months, you'll be alone,_

_And you'll drive around this empty town_

_To the places, to the places_

_We used to go._

_You gotta get used to goin' out,_

_And you'll drive around this empty town_

_To the places, to the places_

_We used to go._

Annie's not sure who the "you" in the song is referencing, if she's trying to match it to her own life, if it's her, Abed, or Troy, or any of them in the future, but the holy trinity of catharsis from beer, cleaning, and blasting pop-punk tracks makes her feel less alone, somehow.

And she realizes, _"Abed and I might still be stumbling through this, through losing Troy, but now I'm getting to clutch on to him for support, too."_

**

While their emotional states improve bit by bit in the coming weeks, they remain in pretty dire financial straits, what with the increase in rent.

She thinks she has a passable solution. It's not the best, but it's livable.

"What if we asked Anthony to move in with us? He's handy. He's got a steady job and could cover his share of rent, and he's not _that_ weird."

"I see your idea and raise you the possibility of having Rachel move in," he counters.

She cocks her head to the side, asks suspiciously, "Is that a joke?"

"Is it cool if I poop?" Anthony chimes in from the kitchen.

"No, Anthony, just cut the carrots!"

Abed frowns and raises a finger. "I think you misheard his question—yeah, go ahead," he calls back to him before replying to Annie, "And no, it's not a joke."

"Abed, you've only been dating for a month."

"Correction, we've been dating for the equivalent of a year."

Normally, Annie's more than happy to indulge his quirks, but something to this feels performative. She can't quite put her finger on what, but it feels like Abed's trying to _prove_ they work, and Annie's reluctant to endorse that.

"If you've been 'dating' for a year," and, yeah, the air quotes are a touch mean-spirited, but she can't find it in herself to care, "then I've been hearing about this for two years. You can't just microwave a relationship like it's a bean burrito."

She's not sure where this vitriol is coming from. She thinks Rachel's sweet and good for Abed, and their relationship seems strong. Hell, in another timeline, maybe she'd go for Rachel herself—she's gotten better at coming to grips with her bisexuality lately.

But in this timeline—yeah, no, this won't fly.

"I ain't living with your one-month girlfriend, brah."

" _What the fuck?"_ Annie asks herself. _"Since when have you ever called Abed—or anyone—brah, even ironically?"_

"Well, I ain't living with your wack-ass, don't know whether to keep cutting carrots or ask if he can take a poop brother," Abed snipes back, and he cuts off her next reply with, "Can we discuss this later? Rachel's on her way, and I'd like to practice my smile."

She barely stuffs her retort back in her mouth before it slips out: _If you've been dating Rachel for a year, why do you have to practice your smile for her?_

Anthony comes back and announces, "I didn't have to poop. Guess it was just air," and Annie balls her hands into fists, retreats to her room, and pummels her pillow for a few seconds since she can't scream bloody murder at the moment.

" _We need Troy,"_ she recognizes glumly. _"For...for everything, right now. We'd both be happier, and he'd calm us down, and there wouldn't be any worries about rent."_

But he's off on the Childish Tycoon somewhere, so…

Screw it. The only way out is through, sometimes, right?

Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, in this instance, because Rachel and Anthony are looking at them like they're crazy over dinner and she yanks him away from the table with a sharp tilt of her head. "Abed. Sidebar."

"Stop trying to sell me on Rachel," she hisses once they're ensconced in her bedroom, the door shut tight.

"Stop pitching Anthony so hard, then," he challenges her, his tone sharp. He folds his arms over his chest. "You're like ice cream cake out there. Overkill."

"We—wait." She steps closer to him, nearly jabs a pointer finger in his face. "What's wrong with ice cream ca—nevermind, we'll argue about that later. Point is, we need a roommate. We're _broke."_

"Well, we're still at an impasse, unless you've changed your mind?" He raises his eyebrows at her.

"Nope." She spits the "p" at the end out, and she can't quite say why, but she feels more invigorated right now than she has in weeks. "And you?"

"Also negatory."

She takes a step back—it suddenly feels like there's not enough air in her room. "Flip a coin to decide?"

He shakes his head. "Coins make parallel timelines, remember?"

"Fine—how about rock-paper-scissors?"

Another head shake. "That's a nine-sided coin."

She huffs and rolls her eyes. "Okay, then, mister genius, _you_ choose something."

"Oh, I know." He grabs up a box. "How about Pile of Bullets?"

She can't help but let out a laugh at that. "We're seriously gonna pick a roommate with a 1993 Old West themed VCR game?"

He shrugs. "Sure. Why not? If Rachel or I win, she moves in. If you or Anthony win, he moves in. I'll politely surrender and ask you to kindly offer a warning if he's gonna try and eat me."

She shrugs, too. "Alright. Let's do this."

They do their weird hand-shove high-five-type thing for a beat.

Abed looks at their hands together like they might belong to aliens. "I feel like we need a cooler handshake."

Finally, an admission that comes to her naturally: "I'm fine being uncool with you."

"I concur."

It's a good thing for both of them, seeing as no one else in their little evening quartet wants to indulge them by actually playing Pile of Bullets.

The dark, prideful remnants of Annie's former perfectionist poison her mind as she and Abed sink deeper into VCR-induced madness: " _If Abed and Rachel were truly dating for a year, wouldn't she understand how important this is to him? Wouldn't she join him in this competition?"_

 _"In short, my dear,"_ she swears it's Evil Annie whispering to her, trying to win her over to her side of thinking with a low, seductive tone, " _wouldn't Rachel behave more like_ _you?_ _"_

 _"Shut up,"_ Annie hisses at herself as she says, "I use my train robbery card. Rachel, you owe me three tokens."

"I'm not playing," she mutters, shrinking as far into her chair as she can.

 _"_ _This_ _is the woman Abed's been dating for a year? Someone who isn't even_ _trying t_ _o indulge him?"_

 _"Shut. Up,"_ Annie growls at her baser side again as Abed passes her two tokens.

"I used sleight of hand to steal one token back," he explains.

"Dammit. Okay."

"Stick 'em up!" Lenny the VCR prospector yells, and from there, the game turns into a whirlwind, like DnD on crack, almost.

Abed slides a card toward Annie. "Rattlesnake poison."

"I have anti-venom."

"Draw!"

"Bang!"

"I bid…" she scans her options. "Five bullets."

Abed smirks. "Raise you one. I have six."

"Shit, shit, shit," she mutters. "Anthony, trade me a bullet for two snakes."

"What?" he mumbles.

"Fine, I'll do it myself." She snatches his card up and quickly makes the swap.

"Pass—no, reverse."

"Hold it!" Lenny cuts in.

"Yee-haw! Ride 'em, cowboy," they answer instinctively, and despite everything, they grin at each other for a second.

 _"This is kinda weirdly fun,"_ Annie admits just before Lenny warns, "Oh, my stars above, there's a twister incoming—tornado!"

"Tornado!" they shout together before they stand up and start spinning.

" _Just admit it already, sweetheart."_

" _Admit what?"_ Annie asks the annoying bitch who's taken up residence in her brain's crawl space.

"Draw!"

" _On some level...you want Abed all to yourself."_

"Bang!"

They're facing each other when the realization hits her like a paintball round to the gut.

Their finger guns are nearly touching and Annie can hear, can see his breathing—short, quick, staccato bursts—and her chest's heaving, too.

If she lets her mind wander, she can imagine he's pulling her in seconds before they get drenched with orange paint.

Except Abed has a girlfriend, and he's just her best friend, and there's no way she's thinking straight, right?

It's just the heat of the competition and the stress of worrying about rent and not having Troy.

That's what's making her think crazy thoughts like that.

Yeah, that's it. That's right.

She goes on autopilot for the rest of the day until she forcibly dislodges the zany idea that she _wants Abed_ from her mind.

**

It stays away until the end of the fall semester.

Until there's no more schoolwork to do, no more committee meetings to attend til mid-January. Plus, her potential options for forensics internships have already said their applications won't open until then, either.

So it's mostly just her and Abed when he's not with Rachel. She doesn't come over that much. Annie doesn't blame her after the whole Pile of Bullets fiasco.

When apartment 303 is only home to its original inhabitants, though, it feels like the two glorious winter breaks they'd shared with Troy, just the three of them lounging around whenever they didn't have to work. Except then, the two boys kindled the intimacy the most, often spending hours in the Dreamatorium or writing adventures together at the dining room table or playing video games together.

Now she's the one doing that with Abed, trading rhymes of worlds they've contrived. Noting that maybe the single mother at the skating rink who seems to be in her mid-40s is actually an FBI operative directing her out-of-control child to skate like a terror around everyone so they're distracted from her taking a clandestine phone call from Langley for a few minutes.

"It's less escaping reality and more adding on to it," she tells Britta; she and Jeff had decided to join them for ice-skating. "And it works really well with two people because that way you have a story-teller and a story-keeper."

They switch roles back and forth, sometimes writing, sometimes talking, sometimes observing, always sharing. Usually under blankets together in the living room since they can't afford to keep the heat on for too long. And Abed's sometimes laughing, sometimes writing, sometimes editing, always encouraging.

She really, truly understands, now, why Troy was so taken with him.

**

She's supposed to be the mature one. She's not supposed to fall apart at the first sign of adversity.

Too late.

"I mean, first Pierce dies, then Troy leaves. Now people are—" Annie pauses, and Abed supplies the rest of her sentence with a comment of, "Getting married?"

"Yeah. It's fucking weird."

She frowns, not so much at that observation—"fucking weird" is normal for Greendale—but at how finishing each other's sentences has become a standard part of their repartee over the past five months or so.

" _And shouldn't finishing each other's sentences be a Jeff-and-Britta thing, not an Abed-and-Annie thing?"_ she wonders.

"It is. It's very fucking weird," Abed agrees. "Or, at least, it's meant to seem that way. Jeff and Britta are actually having a pretty typical reaction to what's going on."

"Really?"

"To use a TV analogy, characters are always looking to spin off when their show's ending," he explains. "In Jeff and Britta's case, it'd be something that would last six episodes and would feature them bickering the whole time with each other and a slightly better off, WASP-Y couple."

Annie tries to picture what a Jeff and Britta show would be like: probably them crashing some gentrified neighborhood and trying and failing to fit in. "Like, the kind of thing they'd advertise a bunch on CBS during football games."

He lights up and points at her. "Exactly. Something like 'Better With My Worse Half' or 'I Do...Not Recommend This' or 'Unholy Matrimony' or—"

She puts a hand on his forearm. "Stop developing."

He snaps back to his senses and gives his head a little shake. "Sorry. Anyway, my point is that this show, Annie...it isn't just their show. This is _our_ show." He goes to gesture to everyone else, but it's only the two of them in the underground hallway at the moment, and she thinks that's awfully apropos, given their last year or so together as roommates and best friends.

He adds, "And our show isn't over yet. And the sooner we find that treasure, the faster the Jeff-Britta pilot falls apart."

"Got it. Thank you, Abed."

"You're welcome."

" _Stop staring,"_ she hisses at herself, but it's just...she so rarely has anyone talk her out of potential anxiety spirals before they hit debilitating levels. So of course she's feeling a bit of extra affection toward Abed at the moment.

"I have a girlfriend," he declares, as if insulating himself from trouble. From her.

She makes her eyes pop, adopts a properly offended tone. "What?"

"You were about to start a kiss lean."

She scoffs. "I was _not."_

He shrugs and apparently believes her. "Fine. Let's go find treasure."

"Yep. Let's do that," she quickly agrees, dismissing the idea—no, the misconception—that she was doing anything but being friendly as of five seconds ago.

(Except she was.)

(She _so_ was.)

**

They're all almost too stylish tonight and the award ceremony feels a hair too pristine, so she's glad when a burst of static in Jeff's earpiece informs them that Craig took out four maintenance workers single-handedly in an elevator, when other members of the staff burst in guns blazing.

She can take cover in a character, use that chameleon cloaking as a foolproof excuse to get close to Abed as the paint bullets start flying. Some part of her, she thinks, was born for this, given how smoothly her adrenaline climbs, how it heightens and sharpens her senses rather than creating more chaos in a messy world of primary color paint splatters.

And ever since that second game, she's realized there's no one else she'd rather be in a firefight with than Abed. Even with the years off between wars, they work together seamlessly—he instructs, "Duck," and she's dropping lower to the floor in an instant, giving him a clear shot at whatever idiot was trying to gun her down from behind. And she doesn't have the time to step around him, so it's natural for her to take one hand off her pistol, to loop her arms around his neck and bring both hands back together on her weapon in one easy motion so she can send their enemies to hell with pink Pepto Bismol paint stains, to boot.

Abed pats his jacket, his movements growing increasingly agitated as he can't find what he's searching for. "I need more ammo."

"I got you," Annie asserts, and, with all the casual, semi-empty confidence she's learned from Britta over the years, sweeps the slit of her dress back to retrieve a fresh clip from her thigh holster.

She tells herself she only wore it for its utility, and for authenticity to the game. That it's not a big deal since everyone's seen it before, during the Wild West fight.

But there's a significant difference between wearing a thigh holster on the outside of shorts and tights and having it on under a dress, strapped tightly against bare skin.

Abed's fingers twitch, his hand almost touching her leg as she passes him the ammo, and Annie wishes she was brave enough to take the tiniest step forward.

She's not.

"Thanks," he murmurs, and she can't say if it's for the clip of paintballs or the view.

She nods, swallows hard. "Sure thing."

They're back to shooting, to dancing, to clutching onto each other with the lightest hand-holds and the occasional touch on her waist or his back until they're unceremoniously shot.

They glance at the matching silver paint bullets now dripping from their midsections.

"Is it just me, or was that really devoid of any build-up?" she asks after a second; with all the fighting still going on, no one's really noticed their demise.

"Yeah, for sure." He gives a small frown. "Wonder if it's meant to be a sign that we're too mature for games like this now."

"That seems lame. And shitty."

He nods quietly for a second, unsure of how to rearrange the scene to make it more satisfying, until they're both studying the paint on each other's clothes again.

He tilts his chin up, then down to the floor again, suggesting (based on her interpretation), _"Super-dramatic super-spy death sequence?"_

She wills herself to keep her jaw set, to not give the fun away before it occurs. She nods in return. _"Super-dramatic super-spy death sequence."_

They hook their arms around each other's necks, across each other's shoulders, then lean back at complementary angles, tilting their heads toward the ceiling and crying out, "Nooo!" while they sink to the floor.

She's hard-pressed to think of a better way to go out.

Until Abed says, "It wasn't quite as world-altering as the Star Wars game against City College, but that was a fun paintball war, nonetheless."

And again, again, again, she's daydreaming about orange paint.

To distract herself more than anything else, Annie asks, "Was there a particular film we were referencing tonight, Abed, or was it just a general homage to the jazzed-up, AAA action genre?"

He considers the question for a minute, then slowly replies, "I'd say we were somewhere between Mr. and Mrs. Smith and Casino Royale."

She rather likes being in this universe and wants to stick around a bit longer, so she proposes, "Wanna watch one of those tonight?"

A few seconds pass, then a few more. Still silence.

"...Abed?"

He coughs. "Sorry. Just, uh, got lost in my head for a sec. Trying to think of how long the movies are and if it might be better to watch them tomorrow."

Annie frowns; he's normally a whiz at remembering run-times, and he's never been one to express concern about staying up too late on weekend nights. "We could at least start one of 'em."

"Sure. You pick." His nod at her is almost absent-minded.

"How about Mr. and Mrs. Smith? I've never actually seen it."

He grins and flashes her a thumbs-up. "Good call, Annie."

He still seems distracted by _something_ , and she's normally good at picking up on his tells, but tonight, she's clearly boarded the struggle bus.

" _You got distracted by some intrusive thoughts a few times yourself, this evening,"_ she remembers, and she decides to just let it go.

A movie night should move things back to normal, anyway.

 _This_ movie night, in particular, doesn't have that effect.

Quite the opposite, in fact.

She'd _known_ about the whole Brangelina sex scene, and how this movie essentially kick-started their relationship, but still...she hadn't expected their passion to shine through quite so strongly.

It's not like she and Abed are prudes, either, but watching the sexual tension boil over after the fight scene, watching John take out his anger on Jane by taking her from behind on their now-broken dining room table, is kind of _a lot_ to handle.

And her mind starts running through sinful scenarios. With Abed.

The two of them trading bruising kisses.

Sinking into each other right _._ fucking. here. On the couch. Stringing their makeout sessions along for as long as they can, like they do with trick combos in Tony Hawk. Keeping their mouths pressed together until one of them finally needs to breathe and Annie nearly whimpers at the thought of sharing a breath with him or stealing one outright.

Abed inclines his head ever so slightly toward the TV and asks, in a remarkably controlled tone, "Would you rather be setting the pace or having to react?"

Ah. Film analysis. A sliver of normalcy. They can do this.

She takes a long gulp of water and hopes her blushing isn't visible in the darkness. "Can I say both?"

"Sure," he nods. "Can I ask why?"

"There's something really compelling about the idea of switching. Of—of being in control and then relinquishing it. I haven't ever done anything like that before," she whispers, "but it seems like an _incredible_ mind-fuck to go with—" she gestures at the TV. "The physical."

"Yeah. I'd agree with that," he murmurs.

She doesn't know how these moments always fizzle out without them kissing, but they do.

This one ends a little differently than some others, though.

Because tonight, during her fruitless search for sleep, her mind presents plenty of alternate Mr. and Mrs. Smith-type scenarios.

And in every scene, every last one, is Abed, Abed, Abed.

**

Annie's careful not to Jim for the camera.

Truthfully, she's always careful not to upset Abed, but _especially_ not when he's filming. Interrupting the process feels sacrilegious to her.

She tells herself that's why she saves her best acting chops for him and him alone.

" _That's definitely the only reason,"_ she lies to herself just before he nods and mouths, _"Action."_

"What are you doing?" Annie wonders aloud as she catches and snares Abed's gaze through the camera, in her mirror. They're at a triple remove from actual eye contact, and yet, somehow, it feels like he's staring through her.

She flips her hair back, tosses a look in Abed's general direction, and then orders, "Hey—stop!"

He doesn't; she doesn't mind.

She interjects again, "Hey, stop!" before she gives a threatening, knowing smirk. "If you don't put that silly thing away..."

She hesitates for a fraction of a second, offering a hint of her doe eyes, with her mouth open just a smidge, and then finishes her sentence with a dire, if playfully delivered, ultimatum: "I swear, I'm gonna stop loving you."

False. False as fuck. Not that anyone needs to know that.

Abed zooms in on her, approaches her slowly, and Annie remembers, just in time, to not appear too eager to participate. She glances down for a second, trying to decide how much of a trouble-maker she wants to be, then warns, "Oh, that's it," as she gets up.

She can tell from Abed's easy, semi-relaxed movements of the camera that he's enjoying this, too, that directing isn't really work in this instant.

It isn't for her, either. It's no trouble at all, truly, for her to portray the role of the giddily, almost sickly-in-love missing lover. She lets out a little yelp of excitement as she tosses herself onto the bed, landing amongst the pillows, sweeping her hair back, and giggling senselessly.

Abed offers her a quick thumbs-up, so she maintains her perkiness, her innocently sexual energy, until the end of the shot.

She props her head up on her fist, and she swears he zooms in tighter than absolutely necessary so she's the only thing on the screen as she murmurs, "Happy birthday, baby."

And this is the challenge with acting: good luck ever extricating yourself entirely from a role. Because she's supposed to be the missing lover, but she's mostly...Annie. Mostly Annie not wanting some faceless, invented character, but wanting Abed, instead, as she lets a coy, domesticated grin sink into place. Like they've gotten each other off and fucked on her bed tens if not hundreds of times. She flutters her eyes shut and lifts her svelte figure off the mattress, puckering her lips up, and if she tugs at the belt on her robe in _just_ the right way she'll be showing off her lacy black bra, her ample cleavage, and she can pull Abed in close to her and say the kiss is part of the movie and…

"What are you guys _doing_?"

The _one_ time Britta comes in to her room...

Abed speaks up for her, thankfully. "We're doing Annie's missing lover footage."

"Yeah," Annie chimes in, "you know, in movies, where the hero's wife or girlfriend is dead or missing, so he sits in the dark and watches her in a home movie, or a—"

"Or a hologram," Abed adds, interrupting her slightly, but she's fine with it; she likes getting these little peeks into how his mind works.

"Or a hologram," she concedes the point, offering Abed a warm smile. "And he's watching her over and over, and she's always beautiful and full of love, almost to the point of being stupid." She looks over at him. "Does that about cover it?"

He grins and shoots off finger guns in response.

"Cool, cool, cool. Anyway, to answer your question," she finally addresses Britta, "we're making footage like that for me, in case I get kidnapped or murdered."

"Oh, _super_ healthy, guys," Britta snarks. "The health department called, they don't want anything back."

Abed blows out a long-suffering sigh and Annie nearly fucking giggles at his theatrics.

Britta turns away and stares right into the shot, and Abed directs her, "Britta, don't look at the camera." She leaves in a huff, and Annie murmurs, "Now, where were we…?"

He's playing the scene back and gives a couple of satisfied nods. "Got everything we needed. Thanks, Annie. You're amazing."

"You are too, Abed," she answers softly, still acting, still pretending she's not disappointed that their little duet has ended.

Secretly, those moments are her favorites, when it feels like they're not just playing scenes or acting, but breathing new life into each other.

She'll never say what she's thinking next, because she knows he hates the concept of mining actual people for inspiration, thinks it's intrusive and almost a violation of letting them privately choose what they'd like to share or who they'll channel for the camera. But just once, Annie wants to avow, "You can keep picking me, keep filming me, keep making and re-making me. In any shot, with any script, in any scene. Because I _want_ to be your muse. Yours and no one else's."

She's pretty sure that's an admission of love, or at least something that's kinda love-adjacent.

And it makes sense, doesn't it, that she's framing it in cinematographic terms, because it's Abed.

For once, she lets that thought land.

Lets herself admit that she could spend all day kissing him for real—not just for a movie—if he wanted her back.

**

She figures it out when they're on their separate planes, heading to opposite sides of the country, more or less.

That she should've fucking told him.

That they should've at least kissed goodbye.

But she didn't.

And they didn't.

God- _dammit._

_**_

It's late September, nearly four months since they last saw each other, and Annie's drunk in her tiny, slightly better than mediocre apartment near D.C.

Not "happy, having a good time" drunk.

No, she's "sad and on the verge of doing some regrettably stupid shit" drunk.

She calls Britta so she can't call Abed while she puts "Wishing It Was You" on her speakers, again, and hums along to a melody and lyrics she knows all too well:

_I've got_

_Something on my mind, like,_

_I'm out every night, but,_

_All I do is miss you,_

_And you're not even mine._

"Annie?"

She can't blame Britta for sounding surprised, not when they were so rarely on good terms over the last couple years, but she has a lot more experience in this area of life. In dealing with guy-related feelings and long-term friendships colliding. So she plows forward with her question, blurting out, "When you wanted to be with Jeff and he wasn't interested, how'd you deal with it?"

"...Wow. Um, hello to you, too," she answers, a touch coldly, before musing, "And the answer was usually self-destructive in some way," she muses. "But it sounds like you're a little drunk already, and that was definitely one of my go-to methods."

"Bingo. And sorry. This was out of left field, I know. I'm just a bit of a mess right now."

"No need to apologize, we've all been there. But if you're asking me about Jeff," Britta starts, a touch of suspicion in her voice, "then are you seeing someone? Or trying to?"

"No. Or yes, sort of. I, um—"

The alcohol loosens her tongue, lets her finally speak what's been on her mind, moves it from a hypothetical scenario to something with legitimate weight to it.

"I'm into Abed."

Britta has the tact to let that settle for a beat.

"I didn't exactly expect to hear that, but I'm not shocked, either."

The surprise response interrupts Annie's sensible drink of water and she nearly chokes.

She gasps, once she's recovered from her coughing fit, "Seriously? You're not?"

"As someone who's encountered every weird kind of intimacy possible with Jeff, I think I'm qualified to speak on best friends falling for each other," she comments dryly. "And you two were off in your own little world _a lot_ over the last couple years."

"Yeah," Annie allows, "but I dunno. I didn't think it was that big of a deal until it was, I guess."

"Ah, yeah, it's a bitch when feelings sneak up on you," Britta agrees. "How—how strong are your feelings, if you don't mind my asking?"

"Would this answer it?" she replies dully as she turns her phone toward her speakers and turns the volume up so Britta can hear the song:

_I don't know if I'm the one to blame, but_

_Every time I hear you say my name_

_I can't move,_

_I can't eat or sleep._

_I'm doomed,_

_I can't fuckin' breathe, no_

"Oh, Annie," she sighs.

"And Abed's coming to visit in, like, two weeks. So what the fuck do I do?" she frets.

"You tell him," Britta replies almost immediately. "At least you can get an answer one way or the other instead of being trapped in limbo. I've been there. It's miserable, as you seem to know already."

Annie nods, surprised at just how easily she's agreeing—maybe it's the fact that she's dropped her inhibitions pretty far already, or that Britta's actually making a good point.

"Ok. Ok, yeah." She steels herself, says, "I'll tell him," and does her damndest to commit.

She scribbles the missive on a piece of scrap paper so she has proof it exists and feels marginally better.

"Thanks a ton, Britta," she murmurs once she's completed that bit of daring.

"Sure thing. You might not be in Greendale anymore, but I've still got your back, Annie. And good luck, no matter what you decide to do."

It's been a day and a night. She really should turn in soon. "I'm gonna get going, but thanks again. Catch you later."

"Yeah, you too. Bye."

She hangs up her phone, and gets ready for bed, feeling a little better, but her dopey, still slightly drunk ass can't help but think:

_I was suckin' on a bottle of Jim Bean_

_Wishin' it was you_

**

_Flight should be arriving on time. See you soon!_

_Alright, meet you at the terminal and we can take the subway back here. Safe travels!_

" _Remember, it's just Abed,"_ Annie tells herself as she navigates her way to the Reagan Airport on a Thursday night in early October. _"Just your best friend coming into town for three days. Or three and change, I guess."_

She'd been loathe to use too many vacation days while working at the FBI so far—always the thirst to prove herself—but when they'd made the plans for this little trip, only spending one full Saturday together didn't feel like enough time, so they'd managed to each get the Friday before the weekend off.

She sees Abed before he notices her, and she tries to call out to him, but her voice catches in her throat for a second.

The west coast seemingly suits him. His skin's a shade darker than the last time she saw him, and he's let his hair grow out a touch. Abed's clearly bone tired—it's almost a five-hour flight from L.A. to D.C. and it's nearly 9:30—but he glows when he finally sees her and she thinks, _"I do that for him,"_ as she pulls him close.

He half-stumbles into the hug and they laugh for a second before they catch each other's hands as she leads them toward the nearest subway station, and this feels something like Greendale. Something like home.

"I'm so glad you're here," she confides, willing herself to not lean into him as they walk. To not egg on this dumb, optimistic part of her mind that thinks they could fall into being a couple with startling ease.

"Glad to be here," he replies warmly, grinning down at her with a gorgeous mixture of fondness and relief. "The flight was fine, but man, I'm beat."

"We can just crash when we get back to my place if you want—I could probably use the extra sleep myself."

They catch up, really catch up, in a way that feels so much more real than text messages and phone calls and the occasional FaceTime, on the subway ride back to her apartment, already planning out some of their adventures—hitting the International Spy Museum and the Smithsonian will definitely be part of their weekend—and it's all so _effortless,_ their intentionality to invest in each other over and over again.

"I missed this," Abed tells her in the quiet of the late-night train; it's not completely dead, but it's not packed, either, at 10 PM on a Thursday. "Just...just getting to talk to you. To see your reactions. I can usually picture them when we're on the phone, either texting or on a call, but it's not quite the same."

"No, it isn't. And I missed this, too," she agrees softly. "Talking with you is more meaningful than with pretty much anyone else, aside from the rest of the group, sometimes," she confesses. "I've made some good friends here, but it's different from how things were. Then again...that's probably not the worst thing in the world, either," she realizes out loud, and they start laughing together at the utter absurdity that was, is, and always will be Greendale.

There's a surprising crush of people getting onto the subway at her stop, so she reflexively grabs Abed's hand as they exit the train. Not that she doubts his ability to navigate crowds—he lives in Los Angeles, for fuck's sake—but she'd rather not be a poor hostess.

" _Sure, Annie. Sure,"_ the smarter part of her subconscious whispers at her paper-thin excuse.

"Nice place," he comments, nodding appreciatively at a few of the pictures from the old days, when it had been the two of them and Troy in apartment 303.

"It's pretty decent. Just...an apartment," she shrugs. "Way better than living above Dildopolis, though."

"You mean you didn't like hearing announcements about vibrator sales around 1 in the morning?" Abed jokes, and Annie's missed having reasons to laugh that aren't from a TV show. She's missed feeling so in-step with someone.

Except for when Abed asks, "Do you have a blanket or something for your couch?"

She realizes her mistake, and that they've got their wires crossed from mismatched assumptions. "No. I mean, I do, but I just figured we could—"

She pauses, searching for the best way to phrase the next part before looping back around. "I figured we could share my bed. You know. For sleeping. I wasn't gonna make you take the couch."

Some part of her will forever be that awkward high school nerd, but Abed, thankfully, accepts her no matter what. Plus, in this instance, at least, he looks dead on his feet, so she's not too surprised that he acquiesces to her suggestion after going through a momentary mental debate.

" _And we napped together before,"_ Annie rationalizes, and it's true: they'd fallen asleep on each other on the couch a handful of times during over-extended movie marathons.

" _Still,"_ she recognizes, despite the yawns and slight tiredness that overtake her, too, _"there's a difference between that and actively choosing to invite someone to sleep with you."_

Her mind shuts down bit by bit as they get ready for bed—getting a new queen mattress to replace the one she'd had throughout college has definitely been worth the investment, and she's glad for the extra room. Trying to sleep two comfortably on a twin was tricky business, as she'd learned on the few instances she'd had Vaughn over to her place.

She chuckles at the memory.

"Wha' is it?" Abed murmurs from her right side.

"Nothin'," she yawns, making sure her alarm's set for 9:15. They _do_ want to make a day of the Smithsonian Museum of American History, after all, but there's no point in needlessly waking up too early.

She's about to turn her light out when she remembers, duh, she's got another person to consider. "You mind if I turn this off?"

"Not at all. Go for it."

She switches it off. "Night, Abed."

"Night, Annie."

It's the first time they've ever shared that little exchange in the same bed before.

She's glad it won't be their last.

**

"I think five inappropriate comments on three paintings may be a new record for single-room hijinks in a museum," Abed whispers as they speed-walk away from a display of paintings on ordinary American life in the late 19th century.

"Saying the woman's hat in that one portrait looked like a replica of the Chum Bucket seemed to really piss off that mom," Annie answers, almost biting her cheeks to keep from laughing too hard and bothering the poor teachers leading various tour groups.

"You noting that the model of the farmer in the dairy industry exhibit had a dump-truck ass didn't go over too well, either."

She can't help but let out a braying snort at that, and they speed up, catching the escalator to the next floor, away from children and overworked educators, and they catch each other's hands, too.

As they've been doing for Abed's whole visit.

Not when they're in her apartment, no, but they've been out and about for a good portion of the day—they'll surely stop for a late lunch somewhere, but she's been more than content to traipse through the Smithsonian with Abed, trading little factoids they picked up during six-odd years of education, not to mention his extensive media literacy. They rotate between thoughtful silence, astute observations, and immature commentary, and she tells him, at one point, "I'm glad I hadn't come here before."

He raises his eyebrows a smidge at that. "Really? You could've seen parts of it that we won't get to already, and it's one of the best museums in the eastern U.S., at least."

"I know. But sharing the experience with you made me appreciate it more," she comments. "In a way I don't think I could replicate on my own."

"I've found most experiences like this are better when you've got a story-teller and a story-keeper," he answers, and she knows she's smiling like a moron at that line. At the callback. At the fact that their mutually constructed language—their method of engaging with the world, one that not even Troy knew in its later iterations—is still standing today.

They make slightly classier buttered noodles for dinner later on—with sauteed peppers and onions included—and homemade garlic bread, too, complete with marinara dipping sauce (thank you, Aldi). Annie hasn't hunted for symbolism in a while, but she'd have to be blind to not pick up on the echoes of Greendale.

" _But it's not exactly the same. There's...there's something else there,"_ she thinks as she forks a noodle and a stringy red onion piece into her mouth.

"This is delicious," Abed tells her after his first couple of bites, and she glows at the compliment, and it hits her.

" _It's an evolution, kind of. The comfort's still there, even if things aren't exactly like they were before."_

The next morning, she wakes up to find she's shifted closer to Abed, her head nearly tucked into the crook of his neck, his one arm slung over her, gently brushing her shoulder, and she's not complaining about these small changes from their old Greendale equilibrium.

"Spy museum today?" he asks after breakfast, eager to confirm their plans before she hops in the shower, and she answers with a grin and finger guns.

"Spy museum today."

They lounge around a bit after they get showered and dressed since the museum doesn't open til noon, and it's unbelievable, really, how much more enjoyable watching an episode of The Office is with Abed around.

They'd both taken that Language of Espionage class early on in their academic careers, and between watching Get Smart, the Thin Man movie series, and a whole slew of other shows and films, Abed's well-acquainted with the spy genre in multimedia. But their historical knowledge is lacking a tad and she's one of those nerds who identifies as a "lifelong learner"—she's pretty sure he does, too—so it's a great trip all around.

It gets better when they've gone through most of the museum. When Abed bends down to retrieve a scrap worksheet that some kid's dropped. She assumes he's going to toss it in the nearest trash can, but he's looking at it pretty intensely before he turns to her, his mouth set in a thin line.

He steps toward her, leans down, and urgently whispers in her ear, "McAuley's been compromised. The Germans got him, and our covers are shot. We'll have to sneak outta here."

Annie's heart leaps with frenzied, furious, reckless joy. They haven't played like this in _ages._ Not even during the last few years at Greendale. Post-Troy Abed had eventually put the Dreamatorium away.

She doesn't think it's a regression. It's definitely just because of the setting. After all, who _hasn't_ wanted to be a spy at some point in their life?

So she indulges him.

(And herself, too.)

"Glad I didn't accept that officer's offer to get boozed up last night, then," she quips, instinctively stepping toward shadows and hugging the wall to limit how much she can be seen. She's not her go-to _femme fatale_ noir character this time, but something of a much more restrained Natasha Romanoff, stalking through the museum quickly, with sharp, darting steps. She and Abed occasionally sneak apart so at least one of them will make it out alive, but they come back together near the front of the museum and breathe a joint sigh of relief.

"Think we made it out unnoticed," she murmurs as they head out the doors. Unfortunately, it's right as a family of four is coming in, and the parents shoot the two of them a weird look, but she's too lost in their fun to care.

That's how it's always been with Abed. With their characters.

And she finally catches on to what she's always struggled to articulate about their playing, about their adoption of these personas: they're always the common denominators under everything. After all, they select their characters. They choose how to play them. Their personalities might change, but if there was ever anything they were uncomfortable with—say, Don Draper's flirting, or the way Leia and Han kissed—they wouldn't _have_ to carry out their characters' actions. Wouldn't have to flirt with each other. Playfully fight with each other. Protect each other.

And yet...they have.

" _On some level, then,"_ she works out in her head, letting Abed's musing about what espionage movie they should watch later wash over her, _"we've been picking each other for years. Not in a traditional sense. But it's still been happening."_

Huh.

Six years at Greendale, and it takes sneaking out of a spy museum in D.C. to unlock such a revelation.

Annie impulsively texts Britta before she loses her nerve, and as something of a promise to herself: _I'm gonna tell him tonight._

Britta's text back is just _!_ followed by _Hope it goes well! Call or text me if you need anything later or whenever!_

Annie waits until after dinner—grilled cheese and tomato soup—since she'd rather not have the potential awkwardness of having to share a meal together if it goes wrong.

"Do you want any dessert right now, or are you thinking later on, maybe while we watch something?" Abed asks while he rinses out their soup bowls. "I remember you saying you got those mini ice cream cones from Trader Joe's."

"Maybe later." She focuses on putting her plate in the dishwasher; if she doesn't make this a big deal, it doesn't have to be. She's struggling to find the proper words, though. Saying _I like you_ sounds so juvenile, like old Annie, but that's the gist of what she wants to get across, even if it's not a cohesive description of her sentiments.

She clears her throat. "I—um—there's something I wanted to tell you."

"Hmm?" He turns a touch toward her while he loads a bowl into the top of her dishwasher and frowns slightly. "We'll probably have to run this, it's pretty full."

She registers the _we_ in his sentence and the thought that they're somehow revisiting their domesticity after all of one day together—not even twenty-four hours—unglues her tongue from the roof of her mouth.

"Yeah. Yeah, lemme get a dishwasher cube." She stalls, slowly retrieves it from the container under the sink, pops it in, starts the dishwasher.

Abed accepts the transition point. "So, what were you saying, Annie?"

She looks up at him and finally finds an acceptable statement. "I think I wanna kiss you."

He gazes down at her curiously. "Huh. Interesting. Any particular reason?"

She releases a breathy laugh—trust Abed to make it sound like she might've just proposed they watch _Saw_ even though she hates slasher flicks.

"It's not _a_ reason, or just one big thing. Just a bunch of little things," she says, a touch nervously, but still glad she thought to ground their discussion in television.

He catches the reference. "That's from _The Office._ A Jim and Pam quote," he muses. "Or, rather, Pam to Jim. An unexpected line, given the negativity surrounding their context. Do you see us like that?"

"Nah, not really," she answers, and somehow, the fact that they're talking around themselves with a familiar sitcom helps her feel less self-conscious about her confession. "Jim's kinda selfish a lot of the time, in massive ways, too. The guy bought a house without consulting with his wife about it. You wouldn't do anything like that. And…"

She didn't plan to get so sidetracked by the TV discussion, but she _is_ talking to Abed and she _did_ reference a popular show, so, really, it's her own fault. And she figures she can make another brave step to compliment her first one by admitting a pretty unpopular opinion.

"Early Pam's too wishy-washy for my taste. Plus, honestly? She's sort of a bitch, too."

Abed's eyes light up a little and she feels like she's won some sort of secret prize. "Tell me more about that take," he says, studying her intently, and the way the words somehow come across like a warm invitation and a command all at once make Annie's breath catch in her throat for a second.

"I _get_ that the show's whole setup is to have us root for Pam and Jim, and against Roy." She rolls her eyes. "But they make it so obvious that she's into Jim by, what, the fifth episode of season 1, somewhere around there?" she asks for confirmation, and Abed nods again. "And then she strings both him and Roy along for three plus seasons! If she had any guts at all she would've gone for _something_ with Jim after the Chili's episode, or at least dumped Roy way before she did," she analyzes.

Abed raises his eyebrows a bit at her. "So you're saying you're too brave to be a Pam? Maybe even a little too reckless?"

Abed's intentional in everything—it's one of the things Annie likes about him—but especially with diction and delivery, and his words and half-questioning, half-fascinated tone say, _"Step right up, test your luck."_

"Early Pam, yeah," Annie agrees, daring to move further into his orbit. "But later Pam, like beach day Pam? When she runs through the coals and says she should take Michael's job and tells everyone off? Her, I can fuck with. Because she says what she wants, does what she wants. She's more authentically herself and spends less time overthinking." And while Annie's talking, she hits on this brilliant moment of clarity of how she's going to do this, how she's going to kiss Abed.

She continues, speaking for herself now. "She sees the risk in the coal walk, and she doesn't freeze up for once. She acknowledges her fear, faces it, and crushes it."

When she finishes her sentence, she leans in toward Abed, on her tiptoes, pulls him closer to her by the front of his flannel shirt.

She'll get an answer on whether or not he wants this since he'll have to lean down to kiss her. He'll have to actively pursue her.

 _"And if he doesn't, I'll have to live with it,"_ Annie thinks.

Like it would be that easy. But Abed's her best friend, no matter what, so she'll respect his choice, whatever it is. Even if she desperately wants him to choose her.

Annie waits for a second, then another, and she's about to pull back but then Abed's got his right hand on her waist and his left cupping her cheek to guide their lips together.

If she thought he could kiss her stupid as Han, God, he does it even better as himself.

"So I'm not crazy," Annie whispers when it ends. "I wasn't dreaming this up."

"No." Abed's shaking his head, and it's the first time she can remember associating such strong positive feelings with a negation. She wonders, too, if he can feel what's in her bones—a hunger, a near-desperation—and hopes it's not too off-putting, not too terrifying. That she's not too much.

She tilts her head and opens her mouth a tiny bit wider, offering him a dare. To extend their next kiss past their old Han and Leia stopping point.

Abed pulls back for a sliver of a second to stare her down. Annie's not sure what scares her more, the idea of this being their ending or beginning, the trembling in her ribcage, or how Abed seems intent on searing her skin to medium-rare with the kind of intense gaze Jeff _wishes_ he could've given her, once upon a time.

And then Abed lunges toward her, kisses her harder, deeper, than he has before, and the shaky breaths and roaming hands and occasional breaks to make the hottest fucking eye contact Annie's ever shared with anyone in her life confirm this is definitely, absolutely their beginning.

"Had you ever thought about—" she starts to ask, and she can't even finish her sentence before he answers, _"Yes,"_ on the exhale of their latest kiss, with such conviction that she nearly swoons.

"Couch?" he murmurs.

She wants to say no, wants to pass "Go," collect her $200, and steer them toward her bedroom, but she also realizes, _"This is a pretty significant paradigm shift. And Abed needs to feel in control or at least get a grasp of what's happening, of the possibilities, or he could get anxious. And I probably need that reality check, myself."_

Annie knows he'll always suffer from anxiety—hell, they both will, to various degrees—and she'll always be there to comfort him when it hits, but she never wants to augment it, so she agrees. "Couch."

"So. Um. About this," she goes on, gesturing between the two of them. "What are your thoughts?"

"Do you want the simple answer or the long one?"

"Simple answer first, please."

He nods, and at least he's still holding her hands, so this can't be bad, right?

Abed takes a deep breath, nods once more, and gives a sort of rueful laugh. "The simple answer is, I wish I would've had the courage to tell you how I felt sooner, Annie. That I wanted you. And this. Or whatever this could turn out to be, I suppose," he analyzes, "whatever we make it to be. And to go into the longer answer…" he hesitates. "Is it okay if I go into the longer answer now?"

"Yeah. Yeah, more than okay," she breathes out, willing her heart to stop racing, willing herself to not relate too much to "Teenage Dream" at twenty-five.

He pauses again, but it's fine. She's more than happy to offer him damn near all of her time, anyway.

"When you moved in with Troy and me," he starts slowly, "I think that's when I first noticed a shift. Up til then, I hadn't really considered the two of us an _us_ , if that makes sense."

"I think I get what you mean. I hadn't really done that, either," she responds. "We had some _moments_ , but I didn't think of us as linked in any way beyond those, outside of the group."

"I didn't, either. It started off—I was all Troy's. You knew. Everyone did. But once you started living with us, I started becoming a little bit yours, too," Abed notes. "Part of me will always be with Troy, though, and I was scared that admitting I felt something for you would be erasing that sentiment. But it won't," he adds. "What we have, Annie, what we've built...it's similar, but it's not an exact replica of the feelings Troy and I shared. And once I realized that and let myself be less afraid, I started to engage on a deeper level with you. And I never really stopped."

"I didn't, either. Or I couldn't," she confesses. Her bravery's served her well thus far, so she might as well keep using it. "Do you remember when you compared Jeff and Britta's second engagement to a spinoff TV show?"

"Sure, of course. Why?"

"Thinking about that now, it…"

She stops and collects herself. Because admitting this out loud means it's canon, as Abed would say. In her own head, the words can remain an abstraction; once they're spoken into the universe, they're set in stone.

The idea of lending permanence to this, to their friendship, to their relationship, to whatever they have the potential to become, should get her to shrink back from sharing.

It propels her forward instead.

The words flow out of her like water jetting out of a tap that's been turned on too quickly. "Now that I've really thought about that, it feels like we've been spinning off together already for years, just the two of us. Even in Greendale, with how much time we spent alone in the apartment and playing in the Dreamatorium."

"After Troy left," he murmurs softly. "Something shifted. Remember shower beer day?"

She gives him a bittersweet smile. "I do. I do."

After a beat, she continues, "And I know everyone had plenty of two-person storylines back in the day, but this feels _different_ , coming afterwards. And even now, when we're not living together, this domesticity is really intimate."

He whispers, "So you've seen it, too. You've felt it. What's there, hints of what could be, between us."

"Yes. Yes, definitely." She's nodding hurriedly and her mouth won't shut off now and she just needs him to _get it_ , to share exactly what's in her brain, so she blabbers on, "We act a bit like a couple even though we're not. And you were right, way back when, I _was_ going for a kiss lean when we were in the basement, trying to save the school," she admits, "and I know we're both usually afraid of change but this doesn't feel like a change, somehow. It's more of a layering."

"An expansion," he summarizes neatly. "Adding on to what was already there between us."

She's nodding and she thinks they've made a good enough use of words for now, but she manages to whisper, "Exactly," just before she's angling her head and kissing Abed again.

There are certain rules with him that never seemed to apply to her—she could hug him more often than anyone else in the group besides Troy, for instance. And she's feeling pretty bold, given the post-dinner successes she's collected so far, so she lets her hands roam a bit. She gently grazes her nails down his back, comforted by the familiar feel of plaid flannel. She puts one hand on his chest, almost gasps when she tangles the other in his hair and _feels_ his heart race at that move, at the bit of pressure she offers by pressing her hand to the back of his head to deepen their latest kiss. And Abed's respectful, of course, but he's not too shy in touching her, either, in skimming his hands down her sides or gently stroking her hair. He pushes her hair back the tiniest bit at one point, tilts her chin down with his thumb, and presses soft kisses to her forehead and her nose before darting back to her lips.

The tenderness in that gesture, mixed in with a fair amount of heat, gets her to quietly offer, "We could go to my room, Abed, if you want."

She waits for his answer, feels like she's suspended out on a tree limb that could either support a whole treehouse or crack under her weight alone, but the way he looks at her—the same way he gazes at her when she makes a prescient comment about an obscure indie film, with a touch of adoration—tames her worry down.

And then he whispers, "I do want that, Annie. I want you."

"Good," she breathes out. "I want you, too."

She was an idiot for missing this for so long, but there's undoubtedly a parallel universe where she didn't, so it all evens out in the end. She feels like he'll appreciate the observation, so she comments, with an air of levity to mask her excitement and slight anxiety as she gets up, "I feel like we've done enough wanting in this particular timeline."

"More than enough. Let's move past that," he agrees with a chuckle, and she's laughing, too. She remembers one of Britta's five cardinal rules of sex—never get horizontal with anyone who can't make you crack up—and she realizes she's got something to do: "Remind me to text Britta a thank you for encouraging me to tell you how I felt."

"I'll text her one, too."

"Cool."

A hesitation. Matching grins. More laughter.

"Cool, cool, cool," they chorus together, and they end up walking hand-in-hand to her room.

**

"Annie?"

She'll never tire of hearing him say her name. "Yes, Abed?"

He fixes her with a clear gaze and catches both her hands as they settle and get comfortable on her bed. "I just wanted to let you know...I'm not, like, expecting anything to happen. I mean...it's whatever you're comfortable with. Whatever we're comfortable with."

" _Honestly, bringing up consent just makes me wanna kiss you more,"_ she thinks before she responds, with equal care, warmth, and affection, "Thanks for that. Same goes for you. There's no expectations. If you wanna stop or slow down or if there's something I do that you don't like—" she's not sure if there will be, but better to put that out there than to not say it at all— "just be sure to tell me, yeah?"

"Yeah," he confirms, nodding before he leans in to initiate their kiss this time, and they're sinking into her bed, into each other, in no time at all.

And Annie's learning—in very short order, too—that making out with Abed is cool, cool, cool and hot, hot, hot all at once. So she shimmies out of her cardigan, and he shrugs his way out of his flannel shirt, and it's no big deal. She's still got her black cami on, and he's still wearing his Pizza Planet t-shirt. But then Abed moves his lips to her jawline, licks a stripe into her neck, kisses and bites it, and then his kisses are dropping toward the curve of her shoulder, and she's so wonderfully screwed.

"This okay?" he murmurs, fixing her with an almost cocky gaze, like he already knows her answer.

"Yeah," she manages to choke out, and this isn't fair. She's _got_ to make him lose his cool, too. At least a little.

So she guides him back up, back toward her lips, fakes like she's gonna kiss him, but then moves her mouth to his ear to confirm, in a sultry whisper, "It's more than okay. How's this?"

She nibbles his earlobe, runs one hand under his shirt, feels wiry muscle—and she didn't know Abed had that much definition to his abs, but holy shit, she does _now_.

He gasps, "'S more than okay, too," and she revels in the sound. In knowing she can make him lose control, even if it's only for a second.

From there, it's easy—instinctive, even—for her to pull her hand back a tiny bit to tug his shirt up further, and he's gently tugging the straps of her cami to the side til they slide off her shoulders.

"Can I—"

"Do you want me to—"

They glance up at each other, their hands frozen for a moment, and share a breathless laugh.

"Yeah," Abed tells her, lightly catching her hand at the hem of his t-shirt. "You can take this off."

"Good," she whispers against his lips as they work together to yank it up over his head, and feeling Abed's hands skim over her waist and catch at her cami sends chills down her spine. She echoes his sentiment, makes it an order: "Take it off."

He follows her request immediately, but with a tender, aching slowness and a steady gaze that's making too much heat pool in her core, just behind her navel, already. And that's _before_ she lays back in her bed and he dips low with her so they can start grinding together, his knee positioned perfectly between her thighs, her hips rocking against him in a steady, fluid rhythm.

" _I'm done with just making out,"_ Annie decides; she's done with words, too, for now, at least. She sits up a bit and reaches out to unbutton Abed's jeans, and while he's making short work of unhooking her bra, she realizes, _"This side of unspoken consent—how we just both know—is crazy hot."_

She's not sure how long they've been kissing, or if it's healthy that deep kisses alone have left her strung out for more, but she's sure she raises her hips off the bed to wriggle her way out of her jeans as Abed pulls them all the way off her legs, and her brain goes, _Oh,_ for a second.

Because they're almost completely naked in her bed. She and Abed. Stripped down to just their underwear.

He seems to have a bit of a "whoa" moment, too, where his mind registers that fact and asks, _"Did I misfire somewhere?"_

She grins at him. "Hey, you."

He smiles back, takes a _long_ , _long_ look at her exposed body. "Hey, yourself. Have I mentioned you look incredible with less clothes on?"

"No," she murmurs, scooching closer to him, snuggling against him like she sometimes did when it was just the two of them in the apartment, when she was too tired to keep up with whatever they were watching and just wanted the comfortable, familiar feel of their bodies pressed together, instead. "And you're beautiful like this, too. You always are."

She likes how they can dismantle gender with their compliments; he called her "handsome" that one time the two of them and Troy wore matching all-black outfits to copy and piss off Jeff, and she couldn't really stop thinking about it for three days after.

"Thanks, Annie," he answers softly, with that small smile that feels like it's reserved for her these days. "And I didn't mean to imply you're ever unattractive. You know I think that you're a standout in most other settings. It's just—this is a new one. A new frontier for us."

"A new frontier?" she asks, perking up at the Star Trek-adjacent reference, and she nearly laughs at herself for being such a massive nerd now. And at how this break in their heated frenzy fits them so well. How they'll always have this underlying comfort, this ability to unapologetically be themselves.

"We could call it something else if you want," Abed suggests, shifting a bit so their foreheads are nearly touching. "Or not use words for a bit."

She can hear the dangerous undertone to his words and drops her voice low to get on his level.

"Let's do that," she whispers just before they surge together for a hungry, yearning, open-mouthed kiss, and it's the killing blow to whatever granular inhibitions they may have been harboring. Because suddenly every meeting of their mouths is rough, harsh, sloppy—their front teeth click together at one point and they barely register any embarrassment because they're both consumed with want, with each other, with needing _more, more, more_ , with reaching out and pulling each other closer for it. And suddenly Annie's back on her back, but with Abed mouthing at her breasts now. She's got one hand clutched in a fist in his hair to keep him there and the other feeling how fucking hard he already is for her, and this is undoubtedly the _best_ version of "no thoughts, head chloroform" she's ever experienced.

 _"The best version so far,"_ she manages to think with a heady, lustful rush; for all of Jeff's incessant bragging about landing dates, Annie's pretty sure Abed quietly did way more than that with way more women while they were at Greendale.

 _"But he's here now. He picked me_. _"_

She wants to embed herself in his head, make herself at home in this new shared context, so she asks, without any hesitation, "Had you ever thought of us like this? Ever fantasized about me?"

He gazes up at her from between her boobs as she lets go of his hair and they both laugh again at how unexpectedly they've ended up in these positions.

He kisses his way back up to her lips and rolls on to his side to look at her. "I did. Once."

"When?"

"After the last paintball game. After we watched Mr. And Mrs. Smith."

Her breath catches in her throat at his confession. "I did, too. I—we all looked hot that night, honestly, but that _suit_ you had on, _God._ And spending the entire night practically joined at the hip with you? Dancing in between fighting together?"

"When you got me that clip from your thigh holster…" Abed shakes his head and nearly groans into their next kiss and Annie wonders, again, just how the fuck they kept it together for so long, how she'd been so mistaken in thinking her pining was just a one-way street. "And then watching the movie…"

It's her turn to moan into his mouth—she'd tried keeping count of how many times they'd kissed earlier, but there's no point. She doesn't care beyond knowing she'll get the next one.

"I was in the _worst_ limbo that night," she confesses. "Couldn't sleep. Couldn't stop thinking of you. Couldn't...or rather, didn't…"

The words hang there til Abed catches them. "Same thing happened to me. Trying to sleep and then seeing you every time I closed my eyes. But doing anything about it...I would've felt weird, or weirder than I usually do. Since I didn't know how you felt."

"Can we—"

"Make up for it now?" he smoothly intercepts her question, and she's already nodding back to him, shoving her tongue down his throat with messy eagerness because it feels like the best way to express _"how the fuck do you always get me"_ in the moment.

She rolls back over and arches into her mattress as she yanks her panties to the side, as she glides her pointer and middle fingers up and down her wetness until she starts circling her clit. She's always been good at teasing herself—she spent so long being told "no" by her parents growing up that she's repurposed denial as a kink; take _that_ and fuck off, mom and dad—so she keeps her eyes shut for a minute, just lets the sounds of her and Abed's sharp breaths and moans fill the air. Catalogues all the new ways they're pronouncing each other's names.

"Annie."

He puts just the right emphasis on it—a polite, but firm, request—despite its shakiness.

"Abed?"

She gives his name that slightly breathy quality she sometimes did back in the day when he'd arrange some Dreamatorium game after a party and she was a tiny bit too drunk to totally understand.

She's drunk, now, too—just in a different way—so she supposes it makes sense.

"I want you to watch."

What a brave new context for a seemingly standard phrase between friends.

She nearly always entertains him when it comes to shows, though—and, technically, she's entertaining him now, right—so she does it again here. Opens her eyes and turns her neck to watch Abed slowly stroking every inch of himself, all the way up and down.

All for her.

" _Fuck,"_ she gasps, biting her lower lip til it nearly splits, and her reflex to finger her clit faster comes automatically.

"You've always been my favorite one to watch, Annie," he breathes out, his voice wrecked, and she matches his desperation.

"You always can, you—oh, God, _Abed—_ I always want you to."

He shifts a bit closer to her, reaches his right hand out for her and starts stroking himself with his left. "Can I—"

"Please." She catches his hand and slides it between her thighs. "Please touch me," she begs, or maybe demands—she's too far gone to quite know the difference as she reaches down for him, too.

"So wet," he whispers reverently as she shimmies closer to him and kisses his cheek, his neck, his collarbone—anything to make him moan, really, anything to get more sounds from Abed that she can revisit during future nights.

"I wanna taste you. Can I?"

"Please," Annie repeats, nodding against him like a bobblehead before they shift, and he moves her with startling quickness, getting her onto her back to kiss and lick his way down her body, mapping out his devotion with his mouth on her collarbones, her breasts, her stomach, her hips.

In short, Abed's very nearly reduced her to an absolute mess and he hasn't actually started going down on her yet.

" _Having your best friend-turned-probable-lover keeping eye contact that screams 'I wanna devour you' is a massive turn on, then,"_ Annie's inner list-checker concludes just before Abed relishes his first taste of her with a long, deep lick that turns her brain to mush.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my _fucking God_ ," she chants in a breathless whimper as Abed swirls his tongue around her clit in a tight circle like this is the fiftieth or so time he's gone down on her, not the first.

"Abed, you're—ohhh, shit, _yes_ , just like that, _exactly_ like that," she moans as he swipes into her with another deep lick, and she stops trying for coherent words, stops focusing on anything but Abed Nadir's goddamn _perfect_ mouth and tongue and how them holding hands on the tops of her thighs while he eats her out is the kind of intimate romance she never knew she wanted, or needed, before tonight.

"Please, Abed, please, _please_ …"

Annie never knew she could want to buck her hips against a partner's mouth, either, but Abed draws that animal desire free from her, too, with dogged, devout determination to wrench at least two weeks of sexual satisfaction out of her in one go.

"I'm _so close,_ " she whimpers, her voice nearly cracking as Abed just keeps flicking her clit in circles over and over with his tongue. And losing control—willingly letting someone wrest it away from her, willingly _giving_ it, giving herself to someone—has never made her feel more beautifully alive.

**

Her body's reduced to jello and Abed's gentle kisses afterward send little shockwaves to her clit, but she doesn't mind, doesn't want him to stop.

"Thank you. For everything," she whispers.

"You're welcome. For everything."

She leans into him, wonders how to make the leap. How to frame it. If anything needs to be framed.

In the past, Annie's examined such transition points through a serious lens. As checkpoints she has to hit. Go on a date, hold hands, first kiss, first French kiss, first makeout, et cetera. And the big ones—aka sleeping with a boyfriend—always ate into her mental space for days, if not weeks, on end.

She's kinda gone careening past most of those markers tonight without anywhere near the usual amount of worry, though, so she just puts forth what's on her mind: "Do you wanna have sex?"

He fixes her with a quiet look, then nods. "Yes, for sure. If you want to. It feels right."

"Yeah. That's kinda what I was thinking," she agrees.

Abed shoots her a small smile. "Cool."

"Cool, cool, cool," they chorus together, and she loves how they laugh into their next kiss, how they can switch back and forth between friendly and flirty without trying, without thinking about it. How it doesn't feel monumental to peel open the twelve-pack of condoms she keeps in her nightside table—being prepared is basically her life's motto, even if she wasn't prepared for all _this_ to happen—and passes one to Abed.

She doesn't even know where her next words come from when she settles back into bed or how they emerge so forcefully, so urgently. How she layers some latent sensuality into her voice, how she reaches down to stroke Abed while they're making out and does it with a practiced ease she absolutely doesn't possess. She only knows that her message is true: "I _really_ wanna blow you before we fuck."

" _Jesus,_ Annie," Abed whispers, his tone somewhere between awed, impressed, and nearly lecherous as she makes like he did earlier, kissing her way down his body, trailing her nails down his chest and raking them across his abs.

She's never been a siren or a devil or a temptress in bed before.

She kinda fucking _loves_ it, at least with him.

And she loves hearing Abed murmur, _"Please,"_ in that breathy moan—somewhere between begging and demanding—she'd felt coming off her lips earlier. Smirks at him and whispers, "Since you said please…" before planting a wet, sloppy kiss on the tip of his dick.

She doesn't have a _ton_ of experience in this area, but she's given a non-zero number of blowjobs, and she has a little bit of a kink for seeing pretty girls drop to their knees when she watches porn, so she's got a general grasp on what to do.

She knows eye contact is a big thing, but Abed's usually surprisingly immune to her puppy dog looks.

" _Let's test his resolve, hmm?"_

Her lone remaining brain cells are "movie" directors now, but...whatever, she's two seconds away from blowing her best friend, he's already eaten her out, and they're a few minutes away from having sex, probably. Weird stuff is par for the course in her life, even post-Greendale.

So she stares up at Abed with her biggest doe eyes as she sucks and wills herself to hold his gaze. Wills herself to keep her eyes blown as wide as possible the entire time she's wrapping her tongue around him.

Abed lets out a disbelieving, half-strangled squeak of a gasp. "Annie. _Annie._ You're—oh my _God_."

She pulls off him, keeps stroking as she murmurs, all faux innocence and false modesty, "Was that _good_ , Abed? Do you like how I suck your cock?" just before she takes him into her mouth again.

" _Yes,"_ he hisses out, and she thrills at how he has to ball his hands into fists, at how his head's thrown back from what she's doing to him.

She pulls off him again, shifts her look to be more serious, less playful. "You sure you wanna do this?"

He nods, beckons her closer, pulls her in tight to ask, "Are you?"

"Mmhmm," she nods back, resting her head on his chest, letting herself sprawl on him. "I'm sure."

She moves her one leg a bit as he grabs the condom off her nightstand, unwraps it, and puts it on, and this is happening.

Abed considers their position. "How do you wanna—"

She looks down. "I mean, I'm already kinda half on top of you already, so I could just—"

She spreads her legs over either side of his and scoots down. Notices how he stares at her breasts as they jiggle and giggles at his reaction.

She stops for a second. "Abed?"

"Yes, Annie?"

"Just...could you please go slow?" she asks softly. "It's been a while since I've actually had sex."

He gently strokes her hair, offers her a tender, warm kiss. "Of course. Whatever you need to feel comfortable. To feel good," he reassures her.

"Thanks. I want that for you, too."

Really, that's the long and the short of everything they've shared over the years. Prioritizing each other. Which is no small part of how they've ended up here.

It takes them a few seconds of adjusting, but she sinks onto him and he presses into her in just the right way, and they let out a gorgeous mutual hiss of satisfaction.

"Could you stay there for a sec, please?" she murmurs, getting used to the feel of him inside her. "Okay," she directs him after a beat, "a little more— _yeah,_ okay, that's— _mmhmm."_

"You're still doing fine?" he asks on the break of their next kiss.

"Yeah," she nods, shifting down on him a little more. "And you're—you're not uncomfortable? It's good for you, too?"

"Yep." The word's little more than a puff of breath. "All good."

Having sex—at least, so far—honestly isn't _that_ different from when they played in the Dreamatorium. The adjusting, the calibrating and re-calibrating. The way they check in with each other and emphasize constant communication to maximize mutual comfort. Mutual enjoyment. Mutual fun.

" _Except we're naked and horny and Abed's got about half his dick inside me,"_ Annie wryly notes. _"Just minor differences. Small details."_

Their bodies finally malfunction a little, not quite following along to their careful movements, as he thrusts and she presses down on him at the exact same time and, yeah, she wasn't quite ready for it, but she takes a deep breath and realizes, _"We fit together well."_

She settles on him and, _"okay, correction, we fit together_ _really_ _fucking well."_

The way they groan into their first kiss after he's comfortably all the way inside her could probably wake the dead. They don't care—the joy of her living alone.

" _Abed,"_ Annie rasps, and there's no way that voice is _hers,_ is it?

"You—" she shivers while she rides him, as he presses down on her lower back, pumping that extra bit into her in the _best,_ dirtiest way possible, "you fill me up _perfectly_. Get _so_ fucking deep inside me."

"You help," he groans, and he can't find words for a minute before he whispers in awe, "You're so fucking _wet_ , Annie."

"All for you," she promises back with a moan as she rolls her hips into him, slow and sensual.

She can't tell if she means her arousal or just herself when Abed starts rubbing her clit with his thumb while he thrusts and their bodies are in a flawless, filthy rhythm until Annie can only whimper out single words again like she had earlier when his head was between her thighs, cycling through obscenities and "please" and, as always, Abed.

She's pretty sure she's said his name more times tonight than in the previous year or so. Not that that has to mean anything.

Just like it doesn't mean anything that he meets and matches nearly every cry, every gasp, every growl of his own name with hers.

She wishes she had a heat map or something to highlight every bit of her body he's touched, kissed, licked, or bitten. The idea of visualizing everywhere he's marked her in screaming red somehow turns her on even more. Or maybe that's just from him mouthing at her right breast while he keeps teasing her clit—it's worlds better than the kind of multi-tasking she carried out as a student.

" _Abed,"_ she gasps; he's somehow the only thing keeping her tethered to reality—her head's somewhere off in the clouds, in a sex-drunk haze—while also threatening to unspool her ties to it.

She wants to ask for more, but she can't form the words, so her body makes the request instead, her nails digging into his chest as she rides him. She falls forward to let him slide in even deeper, to kiss him hard, to let him hold her close, let him murmur, "Yes, Annie, _yes,"_ with an air of reverence as she comes undone with a choked half-sob of disbelief because doing it with Abed feels _so goddamn good._

She lifts herself off of him with a groan, manages to swing her left leg over his body, and collapses next to him, her limbs languid.

"Annie? You ok?"

"Yep. Just need a minute." Her pillow muffles her response and, after she collects herself and ensures that, yes, her legs still work, she rolls over a tiny bit and gives Abed a slightly spent smile.

"That was…" she blows out a breath. "Whew. I'd never...done that before. So. Thanks."

He shoots her a quizzical look. "Done what before?"

"Orgasmed during sex."

He gives a tiny head shake, a frown. "Fuckin' Vaughn."

She cracks up at that, answers, "Whatever, I'm glad that first was with you," so casually that she should be scared before she remembers her manners. Or sex etiquette. Sex-iquette? There are so many parts to this dance that she doesn't quite understand, that she only half-knows.

"Did you…?"

"No," another head shake, "but it's fine, I can—"

" _No."_

She's shocked at how vehemently the denial exits her mouth.

"I mean—" she continues now that she's accidentally stunned him into silence, "I want to. I wanna get you off. I wanna see and feel and hear what it's like for you to come for me, Abed."

She's not quite the wordsmith he can be, but her repetition— _I, I, I_ and _me, me, me_ —is totally intentional. She wants him focused not just on the pleasure, but the fact that she's the one giving it to him. That it's intensely personal.

She reaches one hand between her legs, gasps at the wetness she feels, reaches the other for him and starts giving him easy, lazy strokes.

"After all," she purrs as she kisses him, "I'm still dripping wet for you. And you're still _clearly_ in the mood to fuck. Actually, lemme correct that. I don't think you want to," she clarifies.

He kisses her hard and thrusts into her hand, and she whispers, in a voice she barely recognizes, "I think you _need_ to."

" _Seriously, is Evil Annie mind-controlling me? When did I turn into this sex monstress?"_ she wonders.

" _It was either after you found out Abed's a god at oral sex, or_ _after he fucked you senseless,"_ the small, still-functioning part of her mind responds, and, ok, yeah, that's fair.

Another head shake from Abed. This one tighter.

"I don't need to fuck. I just need _you_ ," he murmurs into her ear, and she's doomed. Utterly doomed.

She's not sure how it happens—if it's her pulling at him or her pushing her down on the bed—but he's on top of her in a matter of seconds.

It's not like the build-up before. It's rough, rushed, all hard, lip-biting kisses and a cross-flow of wicked words and raunchy promises. Needy in the filthiest sense of the word.

"You said you need me, Abed? I need you right back," Annie eventually growls after a dirty kiss as he's pressing the tip of his dick against her clit. He somehow _still_ has the audacity to tease her. "Need you to prove that I'm yours."

Once upon a time, she would've spoken those words with a light sigh and a girlish flutter of her eyelashes. A prince might have offered his hand at a fancy ball, might have delivered her a rose, or a couplet, or a song. Such kindnesses would have been given tenderly, with a royal promise of forever in a castle. It would've been _ro-man-tic._ Cloyingly sweet. Faker than the chemical-stuffed sugar replacements in Diet Pepsi.

But hissing her desire out in bed? Doing that just before they whisper, "That's fucking hot," in matching, shaky, awe-struck breaths at how he slides all the way into her in one go because they're both wet from before?

That's real, raw romance.

Maybe a friendly type of romance, sure, since they're not officially anything more than friends, but the heady blend of affection and lust in Abed's eyes suggests this isn't just a hookup for him, and Annie's not really concerned about what comes next, for once.

Neither is Abed, based on how he's trying to devour her body with obscene worship.

"You like watching," he murmurs, smirking down at her, and Annie would be embarrassed at how obvious her admiration is except he likes watching things, too, so it's not a huge surprise when they lock eyes on the sight of him pumping in and out of her over and over.

They're more similar than people believe, and she recalls, with her one or two brain cells that aren't lost in lust, just how much they both enjoyed talking dirty together during their DnD scene way back in the day. So she murmurs, again, in a low voice that might be anchored in the depths of her soul, "Yes, I do. I like watching you fuck me, Abed."

He moans his approval at that and she scrabbles for more courage, finds it as she grips the sheets, kisses him. She looks up and establishes eye contact just before she whispers, with deliciously sinful intent, "I like watching you pound my hot, tight, wet pussy with your hard cock."

" _God_ , Annie," he groans into their next kiss, pumping into her more forcefully, and she realizes she could do this forever. Not the sex part. The unlocking bits and pieces of Abed part. Discovering exactly what makes him tick, what captivates his mind. It's kind of her favorite game and it's not even like they're two different players, sometimes, despite living apart for the first time in years. They pinball and ricochet against each other, but it's not the chaos you find in a machine at the arcade. It's more of a gentle bounce. Meeting, separating, meeting again.

_"And I can think like him, too. Stepping between being in the moment and being in my mind."_

Right now, she'll easily take the former over the latter, so she releases all of her thoughts and lets herself get lost with Abed, in the beautifully imperfect movements of their bodies grinding, writhing together for every bit of friction and traction they can extract from each other. There's slices, flashes of characters they've been in some of their movements, in some of the teasing, but they're underneath it all, Annie and Abed, Abed and Annie, giving and taking in a flawless infinity loop. And while Annie's not a hopeless romantic anymore, she thinks they have to, _have to_ be made for each other on some level because the first time you have sex with someone—or is this the second time? Do multiple rounds in an evening only count once? Seriously, _how_ is there not a book on this stuff—is never supposed to be this incredible.

He quietly cries out her name again like a prayer and she pulls him close, her hands pressing on his shoulder blades, her legs wrapping around his waist, and she sighs, "Yes, Abed, _yes_ ," through his orgasm like he'd done for her.

She hopes he can hear what she's trying to transmute with those three tiny words, hopes he knows she's saying, _"You can always give yourself to me"_ and _"I want you"_ and _"Let me share this with you."_

Afterwards, when they've cleaned up and gotten pajamas on and settled back in her bed to finally rest, he asks, "Was that satisfactory for you, Annie?"

She bursts out laughing because Abed's probably the only man alive who could make a woman orgasm with his mouth _and_ his dick and still think to ask if she enjoyed herself. She confirms, as they spoon themselves together, "Yes. Very, very much so. And for you?"

"Incredibly satisfactory," he answers with a content sigh, and Annie chuckles into her pillow.

"Never change too much, Abed. I like you just how you are."

Really, she _loves_ Abed just the way he is—that's become easier and easier to admit to herself lately, doubly so with the current endorphin buzz she's enjoying from getting truly, properly, thoroughly fucked for the first time in her life—but it's too soon to say that.

She thinks he might be able to guess at it, anyway.

**

It's almost off-putting for Annie. How normal it is to be more affectionate with Abed.

They take a tiny cat-nap—twenty minutes, with both their phones' alarms set, because she doesn't wanna accidentally go to bed right now and jack her body's cycle to hell—since they're both pretty drained and it's a reflex, to just roll into him, when she awakes. To scooch up in her bed to kiss his forehead as he gives her a sleepy smile.

"Do you want that dessert now?" she asks as they get up. "I'm feeling kinda peckish."

"Yeah. Could go for one of those ice creams if you've got 'em," he answers. "Wanna watch You're The Worst?"

"Sure. Got a particular episode you wanna see?"

"Nah, you pick."

She decides to go with the one where Gretchen and Jimmy kind of, sort of, stumble their way into an actual date. It feels appropriate.

Annie digs the variety pack of Trader Joe's mini ice cream cones out of her freezer. "I've got cookies and cream, cookie dough, and vanilla."

"I'll take cookie dough, please," Abed tells her as he grabs napkins and gets them waters, and they tap their cones together in a kind of cheers as the episode starts.

He nods at her cookies and cream one. "Mind if I have some of that?"

"Go for it."

He gently brushes her hand aside, and she's saying, "Wha—" before he kisses her, swiping his tongue into her mouth for a taste, and she remembers, in a moment of blissed-out delight, _"Oh, yeah, we can do things like that now."_

While they're watching the show, she figures, _"Might as well voice this question now."_

"Hey, Abed?"

"Hmm?"

"Have you ever thought about what kind of spinoff we'd have?"

He pauses the show. "Honestly, I haven't."

That surprises her. "No?"

"TV shows automatically have expiration dates. Some shows are forced to cancel. Others end things at the proper time. And still others drag themselves out until they're no longer recognizable to their audience or their creators," he explains. "With what we've got...well, I don't want to contemplate it ending."

Anyone who's ever said Abed can't be genuine, can't be warm, can't be romantic, can fuck the hell off.

"I don't want to do that, either," she answers, registering the evening's earlier anxiety and nerves bubbling in her chest as she leans against him.

"Then we should just spin-off in real life. No TV show necessary," Abed suggests, like that's the natural solution, and maybe it is. "I mean…" he takes a deep breath. Sighs. "Sorry. I've never been very good at this."

"At what?" she asks back, mostly to give him an opening to speak. She thinks she knows what's coming next. She hopes she does, at least.

"At—at asking people out. At taking the next step. Because I'd like—no, wait, I'd love—I'd love to date you, Annie. To be an actual couple," he explains, stumbling a little over the words. "If you'd want to do that with me."

She beams and she can feel her eyes almost watering. "Yes. Absolutely. I've been wanting that for longer than I've even known, to be honest."

He wraps his arms around her and they sink into a slow, soft kiss for a good half-minute before he nods toward the TV. "Wanna keep watching?"

"Yeah," she nods, and it's strange, how it feels life-altering and not, all at once. How she's not freaking out over this development.

" _Probably because we had each other for so long without really noticing,"_ she thinks.

Still. Her inner romantic will never quite die.

So she turns to Abed to ask him, "Would my boyfriend maybe want to go out for breakfast tomorrow?"

He shoots her his signature small smile as he recognizes the new phrase, and she's becoming more and more convinced by the hour that it's only for her, now. "He would. Would my girlfriend be interested in showering together in the morning?"

"She would," she confirms with a grin as he presses a kiss to her temple.

 _"Sure, we've got a lot to solve with the distance,"_ Annie admits. _"But we've got each other, too, and that feels like more than enough."_


End file.
